


Out of the Flames

by theimaginesyouneveraskedfor



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2018-09-20 22:58:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9519740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimaginesyouneveraskedfor/pseuds/theimaginesyouneveraskedfor
Summary: Imagine having burns from Smaug and everyone created rumors of how you got the burns resulting in being feared by many, but Tilda is the only brave one to talk to you knowing you are the one that saved many lives that day and introduces you to Bard





	1. Out of the Flames

Consciousness struck you once more. The grim realization of your existence always returned to you liked a slap in the face. _And what a hideous face it was…_ though it had been quite a time since you had the misfortune to look upon. _How long ago was it that you had shattered every looking glass in your ever-darkened abode?_ It was common belief that doing so was bad luck and yet your fortune has already been miserably poor. You could not imagine that half a dozen broken mirrors could drag it any lower.

You reached up to sweep away a heavy sweat-dampened curl from your forehead. You once more cringed as your fingers brushed a mottled patch of skin along the edge of your brow. You had been dreaming of the beast again, its golden eyes bearing down on you as the flame ate away at your flesh like acid.

You exhaled into the dark, pushing away the nightmares as you sat up below your twisted covers. You would need to go to the market soon but you could barely bring yourself to leave your bed. You were embarrassed to sneak through the streets below your heavy hood as you avoided the other shoppers in the overcrowded market. Yet, you knew could be even more humiliated were you to bare your face to the eyes of so many.

With a sigh, you fell back onto your pillows, pulling a blanket over your head as you convinced yourself you could survive on your last heel of sale bread for a few more days. You just wanted to linger where you were in the dark, hidden from the world in the forgotten old house. The dark was the only comfort you knew and you wrapped yourself in it, a shield against the world.

Before you had loathed the dark and bathed yourself in the sunlight with a smile. Then you had cursed those gloomy days so characteristic of Laketown and longed for the rare bright ones which chased the chill of the waters away for a time. Now in Dale, you could not even think of turning your face to the sky, so scarred were you by the flames that you dare not look upon those in the sky.

You had not felt the tears as they formed and only realized your despair when a droplet trailed down one of the jagged lines which mapped your left cheek. You let it fall to the pillow as a river began to flow down your face. You hated crying and yet it seemed to be the only thing you could do as of late.

An unexpected knock shook you from your sobs just as they began to rattle your bones. You stilled yourself and stayed beneath the blanket, hoping another rap would not follow… _but it did_. You sniffled back the last of your tears, pulling the cover from over your head as you wiped away the moisture on your cheeks.

You sat up as another knock sounded, this time louder, and lowered your feet over the side of the bed. You should have just waited for whoever it was to leave and yet you were growing tired of drowning in tears.

You grabbed one of the woolen blankets from the pile atop the mattress and brought it around your head and shoulders like a reaper’s hood. Your bare feet shuffled across the dusty carpet and onto the barren wood of the front room as another rap came from the door and your heart picked up the closer you got.

You stopped before the thick door and narrowed your right eye through the brass-framed peephole. It was the girl again. The one who you had failed to elude the last time you had gone to market weeks ago. She had followed at your heels as you tried desperately to hurry home and yet she had managed to keep up with you on her tiny legs. The whole way she had spoken endlessly, spinning some story of her sister and a company of fearsome dwarves.

Ever since, she had shown up at your doorstep every few days and often you had left her to linger there without answer, though she talked enough for the both of you. The only response she ever managed from you was a muffled grunt or a growl for her to go away.

“Miss?” Her small voice chirped through the door, “I can hear you in there.”

“Mmm,” You grumbled as you pulled your eyes away the door and leaned your shoulder against it.

“It’s alright, I know you’re not much for talking,” She continued in her usual naïve tone, “I’m sorry I haven’t visited in a while but Da took us on a trip…to a mountain full of dwarves. The one I told you about, you remember?”

Silence. You could find no response, nor the energy to deliver one, not even to tell her to leave you alone as you often did. Instead, you crossed your arms and pulled the blanket tighter around yourself.

“There’a real funny dwarf there, well two, they’re brothers,” She spoke as if you had answered her, “But they’re still healing…from the battle, like you.”

“I—how…” You could not help the stunted response before your ill-used voice died.

“Is that why you stay inside?” She did not seemed fazed by your discomfort, “Are you still healing, too? Da says some battle wounds never leave you…But I saw you during the battle and—“

“Stop,” You ordered quietly through the door, “Go.”

“I’ve told you a dozen time, Miss,” She answered defiantly, “I am not going until we’re done…besides, I still don’t know your name. If you can tell me to go away, you can tell me your name.”

You remained quiet as you absently brought your fingers to the mottled skin on your cheekbone.

“Please,” She said softly through the door, “It’s only fair. I’ve told you mine, you remember it, don’t you?”

_Did she?_ You lowered your hand from your scars as you thought and the answer came to you quicker than you would have thought.

“Tilda,” You croaked through the barrier, “That’s your name.”

“It is,” She replied proudly, “And now yours…”

“Mine?” You mumbled before taking a breath, afraid to say anything further, “It’s…[Y/N].”

“[Y/N]? I like that, it’s pretty,” Her voice was a sing-song in her excitement, “I was growing tired of calling you ‘Miss’.”

“Mmm,” You grumbled as you usually did, frowning beneath the blanket.

“And now that I know your name, I can give you your gift,” She chimed with glee, “It’s not much but–.”

“I don’t want it,” You insisted before she could finish speaking.

“You can’t turn away a present,” She reprimanded stubbornly, “That’s rude.”

“Yes, well you come around here and bother me, uninvited nonetheless,” You argued back without censor, “What would you call that? Rude, perhaps?”

“…Everyone needs friends,” She paused before she answered softly, “I’m trying to be your friend.”

“I don’t,” You returned harshly, “You must have many friends already. You don’t need another.”

“You can never have too many friends,” She asserted, “And you are my friend, whether you like it or not, so come out and get your present.”

“I don’t want it,” You said weakly, pressing against the door as if you feared the small girl would knock it down.

“Yes, you do,” Her tone was steady despite her childish pitch, “Please, I brought apple bread…me and my sister baked it this morning. Have you even had breakfast?”

Another heavy silence fell between you and you could not believe you were still listening to the girl.

“I know how to make tea,” She offered pleadingly, “You won’t have to do anything.”

You stepped back and stared at the door with a deeper frown, the thick lock looked immovable. You twiddled your fingers as you eyed the sunlight slipping in from beneath the thick door, doing little to brighten the blackness of your rooms. Your hand hovered above the latch and you tried to fight the rising urge to slide it open.

“Fine,” You surrendered to both yourself and the girl, “But only for a few minutes.”

You made sure the blanket hooded your face completely before unlocking the door and pulling it slowly inward. You looked down at the bright-eyed girl who held a rather large basket in her arms. As she stared back, you had to force away the urge to once more lock the door and return to your reclusion.

“May I?” She asked as she motioned past you, “This is getting heavy.”

“Here,” You took the basket from her remembering a long-forgotten courtesy.

“It’s dark in here,” She commented as if it were not an obvious statement, “And dusty.”

“I’ll find a lamp,” You mumbled as you set the basket on the round wooden table, pulling out one of the heavy chairs, “Sit.”

You made your way through the dark as you listened to the girl shuffle over to the chair. You found a half-used oil jar and searched for one of your long-forgotten lamps in the gloomy chamber.

You turned and crossed back to the table where the girl sat patiently, swinging her short legs below her. You set the lamp upon the dusty wood and lengthened the wick before digging around for a flint. You sparked the flame, lighting the lamp clumsily, and the small glow was almost painfully bright to your eyes which had not seen light in days.

“The bread is still warm,” The girl began as she stood to remove the cloth from atop the basket, the smell of apples and cinnamon filled the musty room, “And I brought some fresh butter…Da won’t notice.”

You eyed the bread warily as she took the loaf from the basket and gave an anxious frown. _Why was she here? Why was she being so nice?_

“And Sigrid gave me some herbs for tea,” She pulled a pouch out from the wicker, “She says it has lavender in it. It’s supposed to help sad people.”

“I’m not sad,” You insisted from beneath your drooping blanket, causing the girl to blanch at the sharp response, “Give me it, I’ll make the tea…just wait here. Don’t touch anything.”

You felt bad for your harsh tone but you were also regretting your decision to let the girl in. You did not need pity from such a creature. You entered the darkened kitchen and found a candle stump among the clutter atop the counter. A dull glow emitted from the short wick as you put the kettle on, though it was only half-full. You watch the tin vessel as you waited for it to boil and tried to stop your stomach from the flips it was doing.

You took two cups down from your dusty cupboard and the old tea pot, rinsing them with the little water you had left in the basin before drying them off carefully. The kettle whistled from behind you and you removed it without pause. Loud noises had of late been quite unsettling and you were eager to be on your own again. The quicker the tea was ready, the better.

You poured two cups of the light brew and balanced them cautiously in your hands as you took a deep breath, preparing yourself for your guest. It was a long time since you had been so long in the presence of another. You entered, keeping the hood low over your face as you slowly reached the table and set down a cup before the smiling child.

“I haven’t any milk,” You said dully as you sat across from her, adjusting the blanket as you placed your own cup on the table, “I have not been to the market lately.”

“I know,” She answered before pursing her lips guiltily, “I mean, I never see you there.”

“Mmm, well…” You frowned and huddled away from the light of lantern, “I suppose I should go more often. I haven’t much of anything to offer.”

“That’s why I brought bread,” She offered as she took a sliced from the loaf pan and held it out with a warm smile, “Please try it, it took all morning to make.”

“You didn’t–” You began but the guilt was already rising within you, “Thank you.”

“Not at all,” She insisted as she reached for the dish of butter she had mentioned, “I told you, we’re friend. It’s what friends do.”

“Then I am not much of a friend,” You replied in little more than whisper, keeping your attention on spreading the butter across the brown bread, “And I am afraid I never will be.”

“Nonsense,” She sang as she took her own slice, “You invited me into your home–”

“You barged in,” You corrected from under your hood, taking a small bite of the tasty bread.

“Perhaps,” She ceded though there was no shame in her voice, “But you never go anywhere anyhow.”

“Because I don’t want to,” You argued, not knowing why you were doing so with the young girl, “And I especially do not want little girls hanging about my house.”

“Then let’s go to the market,” She suggested cheerily, “You said you need to go and it’s a lovely day out.”

“I’ll go when I feel like it,” You countered grimly, “Not today.”

“But how will you survive without milk?” She asked naively, “And everything else you don’t have to offer your friends?”

“I don’t want to,” You growled and dropped your slice of half-eaten bread on the table, “Thank you for the bread but I think it is time you go.”

“I think it is time you go,” She insisted as you stood, “Outside! Anywhere but here.”

“It is none of your business where I go or where I don’t,” You returned with a scowl as you rounded the table, “Take your things and leave me alone.”

“No,” She insisted, staying seated firmly as she chewed, “I’m going to finish my tea and then I am taking you to the market…and if you don’t come with me, I’ll have another cup of tea….and another, until you change your mind.”

“If I go with you to the market, will you leave me in peace?” You asked desperately as you stood over her, “Please?!”

“Yes,” She answered with a smile, “For today.”

“Forever,” You insisted as your brow lowered with frustration.

“Today,” She countered without hesitation, “Beside, you need someone to help you carry your things…won’t that be nice?”

“Mmm,” You grumbled and slowly backed away to your chair, “The market. Then you leave me alone.”

* * *

You had your hood pulled low over your face as you let the young girl drag you down the street towards the main part of town. It had taken well over an hour for you to find the courage to change your clothes and another for you to open the front door. You had made sure to keep your face hidden from the girl for as much as she was a nuisance, you did not want to frighten her. And you did not want her going about talking about your scars as the rest of the town did…not that they had ever seen past your hood, you made well sure of that.

As you turned into the main square, you could hear the hubbub of voices ahead of you and tried to shrink behind the girl. She kept pulling though and you knew you would at least be relieved to have your shopping done. As you stopped at the first stall, keeping your head down as you examined the cart of vegetable, you could hear voices around you grow fainter and the whispers made you sneer.

Often this happened when you ventured out; the townspeople began their gossip about the woman in her dark hood. _You know, the one who used to sell flowers by the dock?_ You tried to tune out the babble as you filled your basket with leeks and carrots and moved onto the next cart. You grabbed some pears and some butter, a cask of milk, and two loaves of dark bread before you were content and eager to leave the crowds behind.

Most of your wares were tucked away in your basket, though the girl insisted on carrying the milk and you could not be mad with her for it. You turned down a narrow street hoping to take the shortest route home and let small girl lead along the cobble. Behind you, you could hear the footsteps of another and voice of young boys as they chattered rambunctiously.

As you got further down the street, the boys got closer on your trail and you soon realized they had become as quiet as the people at the market. No doubt they recognized the faceless hermit who rarely walked the streets. You suddenly became very aware of the little room allowed in the road and wished the little girl would walk a bit quicker.

“Hey, lady,” One of the boys chirped as he neared and pushed his way beside you, “What you hidin’ under that hood?”

“Don’t,” You warned as you kept your head down.

“We’re just asking a question, lady,” The other one was close on your heels.

“Well, I want you to leave me alone, boy,” You retorted dully.

“I heard you got trapped under a house when the dragon came,” The first boy said.

“No, no, Akin, she got burned by one of those orcs in the battle,” The second counter with a chuckle.

“So which one is it?” The first turned his attention back to you.

You gave no answer and merely followed the girl, hoping the boys would get bored and leave you be.

“Maybe nothing’s wrong with her,” The second said, “I bet she ain’t even burned. She’s probably just hideous.”

“No, no, my mother says she seen her before,” The first one explained, “When she still had a face.”

You bit your lip and nudged the girl in a gesture to make her hurry up but you were kept from going further as one of the boys yanked on your arm and brought you to a halt. You tried to pull away but the other began to pull on your cloak and you struggled to keep your balance, dropping your basket while fighting to hold the hood over your face.

“Leave her alone!” Tilda squeezed past you and shoved one of the boys without much effect, “There’s nothing wrong with her and she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“No one’s talking to you, little girl,” The boy she had pushed sidestepped her, “Come on, lady, give us a peak.”

“Come on, Tilda,” You said, hoping you were remembering her name correctly, “Let’s go.”

“You ain’t goin’ no where,” The other boy was behind you already and blocking your way.

“Look, just leave us–” Your voice died as your hood was yanked suddenly and the boy on your other side had nearly pulled you off your feet by your cloak.

Your face was bared to the air and the feeling of it was so foreign you gasped, bringing your hands up to shield yourself but it was too late.

“Ew, you got to see this,” The boy chimed and the other rounded you to gawk at you, “Disgusting!”

“Go away!” Tilda shoved one of the boys again.

“You go away, little girl,” The other reached out and knocked Tilda over easily, “Little brat!”

“Don’t you touch her!” You caught the boys arm before he could rescind it, your natural strength holding him in place.

“Get off of me, you freak!” He tried to free his arm but you kept your grip.

“I could smash your head in, boy,” Your temper was leased as you had forgotten about your lack of hood, “Like I did a dozen orcs.”

“Let him go!” The other made to grab your arm but your stop him with a swift knock in the head with your left hand, enough to make him back up.

“Now, go!” You said quietly but firmly, “Before I break your arm.”

The two boys looked at each other in confusion and you released the one you had grabbed, allowing them to slowly back away. You figured the scars on your face added to the effects of your threats.

“Tilda,” You pulled up your hood before turning to the girl who had picked herself up off the ground, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” She answered without pause, “Are you?”

“Don’t worry about me,” You retrieved your basket from the cobbles, “Why don’t you go home now? You’ve gotten yourself in enough trouble.”

“No, I don’t want to go home yet,” She replied stubbornly, “Besides, we can’t let those boys ruin our day.”

“Listen, Tilda, I’m not your friend,” You said sternly, “And you don’t have to follow me around like some lost puppy because you pity me.”

“I don’t pity you,” She frowned at you with her blue eyes, “And you are my friend.”

“No, you don’t need friends like me,” You asserted grimly, “You heard what those boys said…you saw me.”

“I did, but I don’t care,” She commented as she stood her ground, “And they were wrong. You’re not ugly, you’re beautiful.”

“Don’t lie to me,” You commanded quietly, almost near to tears, “Just leave me alone.”

“But I—“

“Tilda!” A deep voice came from the other end of the street and you turned to see a dark-haired man walking towards you, “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I told you I was going to see my friend, Da,” She explained as he stopped before the two of you.

“This is your friend?” The man, her father, looked at you skeptically and you recognized him from when you had lived in Laketown.

“Yes, she is,” Tilda answered defiantly and sunk even deeper below your hood, “We just visited the market.”

“I’m sorry,” You interjected before Tilda could go further, “You’re daughter’s a sweet girl and I did not mean to keep her out.”

“No, it’s…do I know you?” He stopped himself and narrowed his eyes at you.

“I don’t think so,” You backed away slightly.

“She’s the one I told you about, Da,” Tilda intoned brightly and you looked down at her, “She’s the one who saved us.”

“Saved?” He furrowed his brow at his daughter before looking back to you.

“I…didn’t save anyone,” You mumbled with confusion.

“You did,” Tilda insisted with a proud smile to her father, “She was the one, Da! In Dale when the orcs were chasing us, she fought them even though…she saved us, is all.”

“Even though?” He asked with narrowed eyes.

“…Even though,” She began slowly, “She already fought the dragon…”

“I didn’t save you,” You interrupted, recalling the orcs you had slain in battle, “I didn’t save anyone.”

“But you did, we saw you,” Tilda continued relentlessly, “When we were running for the church, she had a sword and–”

“Doesn’t mean I saved you,” You argued flatly, “I wasn’t fighting for you.”

“But you saved her nonetheless,” Her father spoke once more, his eyes searching the folds of your hood, “My children, they wouldn’t be alive–”

“You don’t know that,” You scoffed, “Tilda, give me the cask.”

“What?” She tried to move away but you had the corked jug in an instant, ready to turn away from the both of them, “You can’t go.”

“I told you to leave me be,” You growled, realizing that this had all been some childish mistake on her part and an even more foolish move on yours, “I am no hero.”

“Wait, I know you,” Her father’s voice stopped you despite your desperation to leave, “From the dock.”

“You’re mistaken,” You said weakly.

“You used to sell flowers there,” He explained with nostalgia, “And you would give me a bluebell for luck whenever I passed in the mornings.”

“They are poor sellers,” You replied dully, “And not very lucky.”

“I didn’t know…” He trailed off as he pursed his lips in thought, “You were the one who had been burned by Smaug.”

“Many were burned by Smaug…and killed,” You returned with irritation, “A much better fate than my own.”

“They are only scars,” He insisted softly, “They cannot be so bad. Not worse than death, I’d say.”

“Little you know,” You sneered with resent, “They are bad enough.”

“We all have scars,” He continued, as stubborn as his daughter, “But I think the ones unseen are those which make you hide so.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” You made to turn once more.

“No, _you_ don’t,” He argued insistently, “You would let vanity rule your life.”

“What do you know?!” You swiveled back and pulled back your hood in anger, exposing yourself without thought, “Are these not so bad as death? I am nothing but a sideshow now! Just some freak for children to gawk at and adults to whisper about.”

Your anger had made you forget your insecurity and yet it rushed back as you felt the air once more on your skin. You could remember clearly the hideous scars which had limned your face, crinkling and mottling the skin on the left side of your face. Your left eye was completely white and you were half-blind, though not so much that you could not see your own reflection.

“You are wrong,” He spoke quietly after a pause, “That’s what I know, and so is everyone else.”

“No, you are,” You replied as you reached for your hood but he caught your arm swiftly but gently.

“I am not,” He countered firmly, “Please, I owe you. Why don’t you let me walk you home? Me and Tilda?”

“What do you owe me for?” You looked away with shame and resent.

“For putting up with this one, first of all,” He smiled down at his daughter, “And for saving her, even if you did not mean to…and the flowers.”

You remained silent as you looked back at him, searching for the repulsion in his dark eyes and yet he stared back steadily as if he could not see what the dragon had done to you.

“Thank you, but I’m fine,” You said quietly pulling your arm free from his light hold, “You’ve a nice daughter but you don’t owe me anything and I don’t want anything from you.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” He sighed as he looked to his daughter, “Because I’m walking you home regardless…let me get that for you.”

“No,” You tried to back away but he had the basket before you could evade him, “Please, stop.”

“You,” He returned as he gave a stern look, “Stop being so stubborn and let me help you…besides, I’m saving you from having to argue with Tilda. She’s much worse than I am.”

“Hmmm,” You looked from him to his daughter, “I know.”

“Ha,” He gave a small laugh as he smiled at you knowingly, “Alright then, lead the way.”

You hesitated a moment before realizing that you had little choice in the matter and you could not say you were not thankful for a little bit of help. You pulled your hood up carefully as you turned and began to step down the cobbles once more. As you fell into step, Tilda stayed at your side and you felt her small hand on yours as it wrapped around it tightly.

“I told you we were friends,” She announced nonchalantly as you turned onto the next street and you were glad she could not see the small smile forming beneath your hood.


	2. Ashes in Bloom

She was knocking at your door again. The little girl. Since your sojourn into town with her, her visits had grown ever more frequent and bold. Not to mention, tiresome. 

You pulled the trembling kettle from the hook of the fire stove and set it atop the thick wooden slab you used as a cutting board. As you crossed towards the doorway of your living room, you grabbed the metal handle of the only burning lamp in your home and brought it with you.

You set down the small glowing glass upon the round dining table, the rusting handle gave a high whine as you let it slump back against the metal head. You pulled your cloak from the back of a chair and over your shoulders, shrouding yourself once more below the deep hood. Another rap came impatiently at the door and you let out a silent sigh as you made a path reluctantly towards it.

“Not you again, girl,” You groaned peeking through the peephole with your right eye, “Have you not darkened my doorway enough for one week?”

“Oh, Miss…[Y/N],” She corrected herself as her cheerful voice pierced the thick door, “You’re funny. But I wasn’t here yesterday, remember?”

“Mmm,” You accepted grimly as you pulled away from the door, “Sure…one day of peace. Is that all I’m allowed?”

To be honest, you had noticed her absence. Even though the days and nights seemed to blur together in a grim purgatory, the glaring void has been obvious. 

Your windows remained covered with tattered black cloth and you had only recently taken to lighting a lamp when you woke. Behind the shield of your walls, you still found it difficult to strip yourself of the hood which concealed your tragedy.

“I’ve brought another present,” She announced, ignoring your discontent as she always did.

“I’ve already got bread,” You walked slowly away from the door, crossing to the table to cut a thick slice of the half-eaten rye loaf, “And I can make my own tea.”

“I know,” She called from beyond the door, “It’s not food. It’s even better than food.”

“Just leave it then,” You grumbled as you nibbled your bread and poured boiling water into a tin cup, “I’ll get it later. I am not taking visitors.”

“Oh please,” Tilda begged as you set a packet of herbs into the mug, “I can’t just leave it on the doorstep.”

“Then take it with you, girl,” You sat in the chair as you chewed, “I’ve no need for your charity any longer.”

“You can send me away today,” She argued lightly, “But I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Hmmp,” You dropped the bread as you leaned your elbow on the table and stared at the door, “And if I send you away then?”

“Then the next day,” She insisted without hesitation, her voice barely muffled by the barrier.

“Fine,” You stomped your foot before pushing yourself to your feet, “You come in and leave your wares. Then, you leave me alone for a while…or perhaps longer.”

Your steps were short and measured as you neared the door, carefully unlocking the latch before opening the heavy barrier. As ever, the girl stood with her golden curls shining in the sunlight, her smile though was nearly brighter than even the sky. You looked down at her from under your hood and eyed the long box she held in her hands; a lid hid the contents and peaked your curiosity.

“Well,” You said as you stood waiting for her to say something, “Are you coming in or not?”

“Thank you,” She smiled and you stepped aside for her to enter, “You know, you don’t have to wear the hood around me.”

“I’ll wear it if I like,” You frowned and closed the door, “Don’t change my mind about letting you in.”

“Fine,” She replied stubbornly as she set the box on the table with a grunt, “Here. Your present.”

“Why?” You eyed it warily as you neared, “You needn’t bring me such things. You needn’t even visit.”

“We’re friends,” She argued, “And I can give you whatever I like.”

“You can,” You allowed dully as you resumed your chair, taking up your rye once more to chew, “There’s bread, if you’re hungry.”

“Aren’t you going to open your gift?” She asked eagerly.

“In time,” You answered without commitment, “I want to finish my breakfast.”

“Ugh, you really are stubborn,” She crossed her arms with a grimace.

“So are you,” You shot back through your last mouthful, reaching for your tea to remove the steeping bag, “Don’t you have anyone your own age to bother?”

“Yes, but they’re boring,” She pouted as she sat in one of the tall wooden chairs, “And they only care that my father is the king. Before, they wouldn’t even look at me.”

“Mmm, your father the king,” You grumbled thoughtfully, “He is definitely not your typical king…but much better than the Master.”

“Da says he hates it,” The girl continued on grimly, “But he hated working the barge just as much.”

“I certainly don’t envy him,” You returned, sipping your tea slowly, “Though I do not miss Laketown.”

“Not at all?” She wondered naively.

“No,” You asserted without hesitation, “Not at all. That dreary old city.”

“Not much different from sitting inside all day,” She asserted, “With little more than a single lantern.”

“Do you merely visit to lecture me on my living habits?” You challenged, leaning your elbow on the table as you sneered beneath your hood,

“No, I came to give you this present,” She shoved the box towards you, “So why don’t you open it already?”

“You can be very generous,” You began as you ran a finger along the edge of the small crate, “And somehow unbearable at the same time.”

“Only when you make me,” She huffed as she swung her dangling legs, “You can be just as stubborn as Da, you know?”

“Hmm,” You stifled a grin at her frustration and set aside your cup to grip the lid of the box, “Alright, alright. I’m opening it.”

You could sense the girls smile as you turned your body and pried off the wood top, setting it on the other side of the crate with a clatter. You looked at the box, partitioned into sections where small sprouts broke through the soil packed into each square. You had failed to notice the small holes drilled into the lid and you struggled to think of a coherent response. In the last section of the long box, a collection of bulbs were piled high and a small canvas packet was packed alongside them.

“What is this?” You asked, pushing your chair away from the table.

“It’s for your garden, I noticed it was bare and…” She seemed confused as she spoke, “You said you used to sell flowers and I thought–”

“You thought what?” You said with spite, “That I could ever be who I was then? I cannot even walk the streets without being gawked at like some sort of…monster.”

“No, please,” She pleaded as she stood, “You can’t let them chase you away.”

“I choose to stay in here,” You insisted in a dark tone, “It has nothing to do with them.”

“You don’t have to…I only thought,” She stumbled over her words, “I thought a garden would look nice, is all. I’ll plant them myself, Miss –Y/N]…I thought you liked flowers.”

“I…” You suddenly felt guilty as you heard the distress in her voice, “I _do_ like flowers.” You reached out and plucked a bulb from the collection, “These are tulips, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” She answered solemnly, “There’s not many flower vendors in town…Not any, truly. Sigrid got these from the apothecary.”

“I apologize, Tilda,” You dropped the bulb back in the box, “I appreciate the gesture…Perhaps, a garden would look nice. Though, the grass is a bit overgrown.”

* * *

The sun beat down on you, even hotter through the thick fabric of your cloak, the black hood drooping over your eyes. You and Tilda had trimmed the grass and only just begun to pluck the overgrown weeds of your front garden. The sweat trickled down your face and soaked your back but your shame kept you from disposing of your extra layer. As it was, the occasional passerby would pause to not-so-inconspicuously observe the hermit emerged from her hovel.

You sat on your knees among the turned soil, plotting out where each plant should go as you issued Tilda curt directions. The little girl moved obediently around with a small spade in hand as you helped arrange the garden. You were not sure you would ever see the blooms as it had been long since you had gone about such a task. It took a special hand to draw life from dirt and you lacked the hope you had once poured into your work.

You turned a handful of seeds into the soil as Tilda’s small voice began to sing a sweet tune and the gentle sound nearly made you flinch. The little girl was so full of joy that it often confounded you and even made you uneasy. You sank lower behind your hood as you turned your back to the sun and tried not to hear her melody, though unable to bring yourself to tell her to quiet. Instead, you focused on digging another hole for one of the sprouts before carefully transferring it to the ground.

“Tilda,” A deep but quiet voice shook you from your thoughts, “How did I know you’d be here?”

“Da!” You felt soil sprinkle against your cloak as Tilda jumped up from her work, “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” He answered shortly, “It’s dinner time…and your sister was sure you had gotten yourself lost.”

“Oh, Da, I always come home,” She said innocently, “And I was only helping [Y/N] with her garden.”

“Mmm,” You turned as the dark man grumbled his response, “That’s what all that was about. I thought I told you about bothering…people.”

“I’m not bothering [Y/N], Da,” She argued stubbornly, “I’m helping her.”

“She is…helping,” You spoke at last before her father could reply, “She is a very generous girl…though I think she should find others more suited to her kindness.”

“I am sorry,” You could sense him trying to peer through your hood as he addressed you, “I know she can be rather…persistent.”

“She can,” You agreed, standing and dusting the dirt from your heavy cloak, “But I know she means well.” You turned, peaking at the girl from under your hood, “Tilda, you should go with your father now. You’ve spent enough time in my garden.”

“But…” She began as she looked solemnly to the garden, avoiding her father’s dark gaze, “Alright.”

“Thank you, Tilda,” You tried to sound kind but you only came across as miserable as ever.

“Can she come for dinner, Da?” Tilda asked abruptly as she turned to him, “Please?”

“Uh…certainly she can,” Bard answered hesitantly, “Though you’d have to ask her if that’s what she wants…She seems to have had enough of you for one day.”

“Will you, [Y/N]?” She turned to you and you nearly shrunk under her hopeful smile, “You can come meet my brother and sister.”

“I, uh, I don’t think that would be wise,” You mumbled back as you pulled your hands inside your cloak, twiddling your fingers beneath the folds, “I don’t want to scare them.”

“You won’t,” She insisted and you heard Bard give a warning growl from beside her, “You don’t scare me and Sigrid and Bain are much braver than me.”

“Please, I…” You paused as you bit your lip and eyed the eager girl; you felt a twinge of guilt for all she had done for you, “I suppose I owe it to you, girl.”

“I knew you would,” She grabbed your hand before you could react and turned back to her father, “Come on, Da.”

She began to pull you along and you fell into step beside her with hesitation; you were not so sure you were welcomed by the king. He came up on your other side though and as you glanced at him from below the hood, he did not seem too upset.

“Thank you,” He said quietly so that Tilda could not hear, “I know she can be quite…stubborn.”

“Not at all,” You shook your head and looked at the girl once more, “In all honesty, I’ve not been very nice myself.”

“Well, she must like you,” He commented as Tilda swung your arm, “She’s not usually so outspoken…not with strangers.”

“Oh,” You looked ahead of you as no response came to you.

You could not figure why this little girl insisted on pestering you so and the more she did, the more confused you became. Furthermore, you wondered how her father could be so accepting of her doing so. Most of the citizens of Dale ushered their children away from you when you walked the streets and you had come to expect it. Yet, the very king of the city did not even seem to mind your scarred face or your dark hood. Perhaps, he was merely a gifted actor. He would have to be as a king.

* * *

Tilda’s house was much larger than your own, nearly a mansion in comparison. _Yet what else could you expect?_ Her father was the king though he had always seemed humble, though many would appear so in the shadow of the former Master of Laketown. The small girl pulled you up the front steps as her father preceded the pair of you and your nerves began to flurry in your stomach. You wondered if it would be rude to keep yourself hidden behind your cloak.

You entered through the large oaken door held open by the king himself and bit back the urge to ask why he did not live like a true king. Most would have servants lined up to open doors and take cloaks, even to cut their master’s meat at the table. Instead, you entered the well-lit house to no servants, maids, or loyal followers, only the distant sound of chatter from down the hall. 

Bard removed the dark cloak around his shoulders, the golden embroidery along the edge of the brown fabric catching the light of the lamps which lined the wall. Next, he took Tilda’s as she held it out to him, a small dark blue garment with little birds sewn along its hem with silver thread. Finally he turned to you and your hands froze before the plain clasp of your worn, black cloak.

“You may keep it on if you are more comfortable,” He allowed, though his tone allotted you no shame, instead it eased your nerves, “However, you may be want to see your food.”

“I…uh,” You slowly unhooked the clasp, “I am a guest in your house, I would not think to cower behind a hood.”

You let the metal clasp go and the cloak went slack about your shoulders and you cautiously pushed the hood back from your face. They had seen your face before, witnessed the hideous scars, but it still felt an intimidating task. It was made even more so by the thought that there were others in the house still, children you would expect, who may not be so accepting as their sister. You whisked the cloak away from your body before you could change your mind and held it out to the king; almost amused that royalty was tending to your coat.

“Here,” You let him take your woolen shield with a rueful look, “Thank you.”

“Not at all,” He hung it beside his own and Tilda’s, making yours seem rather dull in contrast, “We usually have attendants present for guests but…this was unexpected.”

“Da doesn’t think we need servants, not like the old Master,” Tilda explained naively, once more taking your hand to guide your away from the door, “Only Malory.”

“Malory?” You repeated quizzically as you walked behind the king with his daughter at your side.

“Our maid,” Bard explained over his shoulder, “An old family friend whom I’ve kept on to keep an eye on the children. Though, Tilda seems to know exactly how to elude her.”

“I always ask Mal before I go,” She argued to her father’s back.

“You just don’t tell her where,” Bard flipped over his shoulder as he led you into the bright and warm kitchen, “Speaking of the lady.”

As you entered, you could not help but try to hide behind the king, sensing another waiting for you in the glowing kitchen. You had to force yourself to stand straight and resisted the urge to touch the mottled skin of your face, instead letting Tilda pull you further inside.

“Malory,” Bard greeted a grey-haired woman as she turned back from the large stove, “Where are the children? I just heard them.”

“I sent them out to the table,” She answered, though she did not seem to notice you, “They don’t realize as I get older, I am not so able to listen to their chatter as I work.”

“You’re not old, Mal,” Bard chided with a smile as he crossed to take the thick cloth from her hands, “Not yet.”

“Bah, what do you know?” She swatted his shoulder with a thick hand as he stepped past her and neared the stove, “You talk to me in twenty years and tell me you ain’t old…if I’m still around.”

“Any day now, Mal,” He lifted the pot hanging in the stove with a grunt, “I told you. I’ll buy you a nice little house and you’ll have a healthy salary—“

“Nonsense,” She pursed her lips as he set the hot vessel on the counter, “The day I stop working, that’s the end of everything.”

“Ugh, don’t be so morbid,” Bard shook his head at the woman, “Not in front of our guest.”

“Ah, I was wondering when you’d find your manners,” She jabbed him with one of her knobby fingers, “Who is this lovely lady?”

She turned to you and for a moment you saw the pity in her faded green eyes, though her smile was more pleasant than any you had seen in a long time. 

“This is [Y/N],” Bard introduced you pleasantly, “The friend Tilda’s been sneaking off to see these past weeks…Our friend, too, now.”

“…” You swallowed as you tried to come up with a response, the silence thickening before you finally found your tongue, “Hello, it’s lovely to meet you.”

“Even lovelier to meet you, dear,” She nodded to you as she removed the lid from the pot, “It’s always nice to have company.” She looked to Bard once more, “Why don’t you go join the others? I’ll have this out in a moment.”

“You’re the best, Mal,” Bard gave her a peck atop her grey head and she glowered at the gesture, “Come on.”

Bard led you through the door to his left and your heart began to rise in your chest as chatter sounded from the other side. _They were only children_ , you had to remind yourself, _but so were those boys back in the alley_ …granted they were nearly grown. You shuffled through behind Bard and Tilda as the voices died at his sudden greeting.

“Children!” He seemed more cheerful than usual and you wondered if this was what he truly was.

“Da!” The other two children replied in unison.

“You found Tilda,” The older girl observed as she frowned at her sister who made her way to the chair across from her.

“I did,” He sent his own reprimanding look to his younger daughter but the two other children had both noticed you and now their eyes were set in your direction, “She’s brought her friend for dinner, [Y/N].”

This time you were too ashamed to speak as you stared back at the blond girl and her dark-haired brother. Neither of them looked as fearful as you had expected but you did not relish being the centre of attention. You remained at the door, unable to make yourself move and you were tempted to turn back and run for your cloak.

“[Y/N],” Bard’s voice cut the tension and you looked over to him as he pulled back a chair, “Please, sit.”

“Um, thank you,” You mumbled as you crossed to him and accepted the chair, avoiding the eyes of the children.

“This is my daughter, Sigrid,” Bard explained as he took his own seat at the head of the table, “And my son, Bain.”

“You must be the one who likes the flowers,” The older girl’s voice was gentle and pulled your eyes away from your lap.

“Um, I…guess,” You looked to Tilda who sat at your side, “I do, uh, like flowers.”

“Tilda was hounding me for days,” She said with a smile, “She said you lost all your flowers during Smaug’s attack.”

“…We all lost things in the attack,” You replied grimly, looking to the table, “Flowers are nothing.”

“Is that what happened to you?” The boy finally spoke, “Did you get burned by Smaug?”

“Bain,” Bard hissed in rebuke.

A silence rose at the table, a sudden pall as you continued to gaze down at the wood like it was talking to you. You bit your lip and felt the burns along your cheekbone without realizing it. You caught yourself and lowered your hand, the small scars peeking out from just beneath the cuff of your blouse broke you from your thoughts.

“It’s alright,” You said at last, raising your head to look at the boy, “Yes, I was burned by the dragon. There’s no hiding that, is there?”

“[Y/N],” Bard began apologetically, “He didn’t…”

“It’s alright,” You shook your head, “I’d be curious too if a half-face hermit sat down at my table for dinner.”

“Hey,” Tilda hit your arm, though she was too small to hurt you, “Don’t talk about yourself like that. I told you, already.”

You looked down at the girl, the anger in her face almost comical and you nearly grinned at the anger in her eyes. Even under your gaze, she did not flinch, merely staring back at you with fire in her eyes.

“My apologies, Tilda,” You stifled a small laugh which threatened, “I didn’t mean to…offend you.”

“She’s right, you know?” Bard added as he leaned an elbow on the table, “You shouldn’t be so harsh on yourself. I know the people in this town can be…judgmental, but you can’t let them get to you.”

“I, uh, I suppose,” His tone made you feel almost like one of his children and that he were giving you some obvious lesson, “…Thank you, for inviting me. I know I can be quite a dull guest.”

“There you go again,” He tilted his head disapprovingly, “You’re a perfectly fine guest and I should hope you join us more often in the future.”

The door behind him opened abruptly, saving you from an awkward response as Malory entered with a large serving dish of stew. She set it carefully between the platter of bread and butter pat, the savoury aroma stirring your appetite. You could have salivated at the smell of it and it swept your mind away from your own self-pity.

“And you’ll likely want to stop by more often,” Bard smiled at the spread, “Mal is a wonderful cook.”

You tried to give your host a smile of your own but you still could not find it within yourself to do more than purse your lips. Instead, you waited as the others served themselves and focused on the prospect of a proper meal for the first time in months. Even if you still felt a grotesque imposter in the presence of the royal family, you could at least be thankful for their kindness.


	3. Smoke and Mirrors

You walked down the cobbles, head held low as you let the set of footsteps beside you guide you along. You had been out later than you would have liked and it was the second time this week you found yourself traversing the streets after dark. At least this way, you did not see many people and another layer was added to your disguise. Besides, you were with the king and few dared to say much about you when the dark-haired king was near.

“Tilda sure enjoys your company,” Bard commented as you turned onto your avenue, “Though I apologize if her attentions are growing tiresome.”

“She is just a girl,” You replied quietly, “I should not be unkind. Whatever miseries I suffer, I should not take out upon her.”

“You are very tolerant,” He said lightly as you stopped before your steps. “Even I can grow rather exasperated with her…though in all honesty, I’ve never seen her so happy.”

“Happy?” You echoed, “What do you mean?”

“Tilda has never been more than a mouse,” He explained as he grasped his hand behind his back, “Quiet but kind-hearted. Yet she has never been one to make friends easily or to even to try, for that matter.”

“Oh,” You bit your lip and fiddled with the hem of your sleeve, “Well…perhaps I should be nicer.”

“Just be you,” He insisted brightly, “She seems to like you…and I can’t blame her.”

“Ha,” You scoffed with a little too much venom, “Look, thank you for walking me home…again. And for everything else.”

“Not at all,” He replied warmly, “It’s not a bother. Besides, I would be remiss to let you journey home alone.”

“Well, it feels like it,” You said dully, “But I appreciate it…Good night.”

“Wait,” He stopped you as you made to step away, “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh?” You turned back, “What is it?”

“The evening after tomorrow there is to be a feast,” He began and the frown was already forming beneath your hood, “As I mentioned earlier, the king of Mirkwood is to arrive in the morning and so it should be a jovial affair…”

“Please don’t,” You interjected, “I am not one for such things.”

“But…why not?” He asked desperately, “Why do you hold yourself back?”

“You know,” You pulled on your hood unthinkingly, “It is kind of you to even think of inviting me but I just…cannot.”

“[Y/N],” He sounded disappointed and you wondered why he would even care.

“Thank you, truly,” You said as you took a step back, “But you just, you don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to be afraid,” He pleaded, “People are not as bad as you think.”

“No, they are worse,” You retorted, “They don’t whisper about you the same way they do me.”

A silence rose between the two of you, holding you in place as you longed to flee inside but you could not as the stern king frowned down at you.

“…Well,” He began as he looked away at last, “Your flowers are coming through.”

“I…” You turned and squinted through the dark at the garden, “They are.”

“I always liked flowers,” He commented as he glanced back to you, “Good night, [Y/N].”

“Good night,” You returned glumly, the tone in his voice sent a twinge of guilt through you.

Slowly, he turned away and you stepped back towards your front door, watching him as he walked reluctantly away. You could tell that he had wanted to argue further, to convince you, and you feared you had been too harsh. For a moment his step stuttered and you thought he might turn back but instead you swiveled away and pushed at your door handle. You were better off hidden away, as much for yourself as for others.

* * *

“Won’t you come? Please,” Tilda had been pestering you all day and you wished you had kept your door closed, “It’ll be so much fun.”

“If I have to tell you again, you’ll be out in the yard,” You growled as you sat across from her with book in hand, “Why are you still here?”

“Because I want you to come tonight,” The girls nearly whined, “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“That’s what you keep saying,” You readjusted your hood as you peeked out at the girl over your pages, “Though I wonder what that means to you. Friends are not supposed to coerce each other into doing foolish things.”

“It’s not foolish,” She argued as she shifted her weight from one foot to another, “You’re the one being foolish.”

You bit back a vile retort and instead eyed the naïve little girl before you. Her golden hair was set in perfect ringlets and she wore a finely-sewn pink dress, herself ready to attend the evening’s feast. She had left you earlier and you had thought your day over but she had returned only an hour later. This time, it was not just to chatter about her childish dreams but to goad you into leaving your house once more.

“Tilda, I’ve made my decision,” You asserted as you closed the book in your hands, “I do not want to go and I will not tell you again, so you go along and have fun.”

“Please, [Y/N]…” She brought her hands together in her plea.

“No,” You held firm as you dropped the book on the table at your elbow, “I do not how else to say it, Tilda, and I will not say no again.”

“Hmm,” She sighed and looked to her shoes in defeat, “Fine. I just thought…”

“I know, Tilda,” You said, feeling bad for causing her a somber tone, “I appreciate it, I truly do but you should go before you’re late.”

“I…guess you’re right,” She accepted, finally looking at you with disappointed eyes, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Sure,” You allowed, twiddling your fingers, “Now be off.”

“Good night, [Y/N],” She came towards you and you had to keep yourself from flinching as she hugged you gently, “Bye.”

“Goodbye,” You watched as she backed away, her embraces often caught you unawares but you could not find the strength to tell her not to.

She finally turned away and made for the door, reluctantly pulling the handle and slipping through into dim with a final lingering look over her shoulder. You frowned as you felt a pang in your stomach and the door closed with a disheartening whine of hinges. You knew the girl had good intentions but they were misplaced and you should not encourage them so. Yet how could you tell her to stop after all her father had told you. Whatever she saw in you seemed to make her bolder though you were quite the opposite.

* * *

You had tried to sleep but all you could hear was the distant roar of the feast which seemed to have turned into a raucous affair. Hours after it had begun, it was still underway and the glow of it slipped through the slit of your front curtain. You had resumed your seat in the armed-chair and taken up the aged book of poetry you had been reading for the last few days, a lamp burning low at your elbow.

You looked up from the pages of your book, the text burned in your vision as your sight adjusted to the surrounding dim. You could not say how long you had been reading but it was likely time to retire for the night; _or, well past._ You set aside the book and stood, stretching, your hood forgotten and bunch along the seat of chair. It felt safe to be alone but your former solace felt slightly…desolate.

You yawned as you took the lamp in your hand and carefully stepped around the sofa. You were stopped in place however as a subtle scratching came from your front window. You made to ignore it and continue on to bed but it came louder and you heard rustling. You held the lamp before you and edged towards the window, peeking through into the dark garden.

You could see the tulips which had only just begun to bloom moving and one suddenly broke and the bright red petals disappeared into the dark soil. You pulled back with a growl and rushed over to the door, racing outside with a shout at the small creature scurrying around your yard. The chipmunk ran away as you kicked at it with your boot and you turned to the mess it had left in your garden.

Several of the tulips had been torn away in its mischief and some others ransacked. It was only a small patch but disappointment welled in you nonetheless. You bit your lip grimly as you knelt down and collected the broken flowers; _they would make a nice bouquet for Tilda_. You comforted yourself with the thought as you stood, frowning at the dirt, and turned back with lamp and flowers in hand.

You nearly shrieked as you looked up to the end of your yard and saw a looming figure watching you. The silver of the moonlight limned his pale hair and sparkled in his luminous eyes. You had seen the elf before, long ago during the battle, though you must be mistaken. The king would no doubt be at the feast still as it glowed and buzzed a few streets away.

“Good evening,” The elf said in his deep voice before you could turn away, “Lovely flowers.”

“Thank you,” You accepted, angling away from him so that the moonlight could not reveal your scars, “Though I’d say it is closer to early morning than evening now.”

“Yes, I believe you are correct,” His voice was airy and yet heavy, “Though I wonder why you are not with the rest of the city at the celebration.”

“I could wonder the same about you,” You grumbled, wishing he would let you be.

“I was there,” He shrugged, “Needed some air. But you, you were not…though I know you were at the battle.”

“Is that what they’re celebrating then?” You asked grimly, “I thought it was merely for the elven king.”

“King Thranduil Elvenking,” He supplied, his mouth creasing slightly, “Though you can just call me Thranduil.”

“Should you not be returning to the feast?” You suggested blithely.

“Would you be so inconsiderate as to withhold your name?” He wondered pointedly, “To a king nonetheless.”

“[Y/N], your highness,” You answered and turned towards your door, “Now I must be to bed. I am tired.”

“Wait,” You sensed him step across the border of the yard and turned back to him as he neared, “You did not answer my question.”  
“

I told you my name,” You insisted, keeping your face away from the light.

“Not that one,” He shook his head, “Why didn’t you attend the feast?”

You pursed your lips and remained silent as he awaited your answer and yet you could not find an excuse to feed him.

“You needn’t say it,” He said through the thick silence, “Dragon fire burns deeper than just the flesh.”

You flicked your eyes at him sharply before looking away in embarrassment. _Why had you not grabbed your hood before running out into the night like a fool?_

“Do not be ashamed,” His tone was warmer than you could have ever expected, “You are not the only one with scars.”

“Hmmp,” You scoffed, “What would you know of–”

As you dared to look at him, your voice was caught in your throat as his appearance had changed. His pristine skin had become cratered and mottled with burns as severe as your own and you nearly gasped. _Was this how you appeared to others?_ It was much worse than you recalled.

“I know much and more,” He answered your unfinished question, “Would you like me to share with you?”

“What do you mean?” You asked, your curiosity biting at your ears.  
“I can help you,” He offered and his lips looked more than their usual grim line, “Perhaps give you some advice.”  
“I…” You thought as you looked up at him, “Please, help me.”

* * *

You had never thought you would ever look in a mirror again, yet you could not turn away as you stared into the looking glass with disbelief. You brought your hand up and felt the smooth skin along the left side of your face, but beneath your fingertips it felt rough and cratered. Even your eye appeared as it once was, the iris and pupil had returned though you were still half blind.

“It is called a glamour,” Thranduil had explained as his skin had healed before you, reforming its porcelain veneer, “An old elvish trick. Magic some would call it.”

“But I am not an elf,” You argued with a frown, “I have no such magic.”

“It is not magic truly,” He said as he looked closer at your burns, “Not the type that wizards possess. It can be learned.”

“And you…” You began, your voice catching in your throat, “…would teach me?”

“If you so wish,” He answered, though his voice remained as cryptic as ever.

“But why?” You asked, biting your lip.

“A little princess told me of a friend she had,” His lips twitched slightly, almost a smile, “A beautiful lady hidden in dark house…she said her friend was afraid. Afraid of her own reflection.”

“Tilda,” You whispered dully.

“But said she was brave enough to face a dragon and a dozen orcs,” He continued as he leaned back in his seat, “Yet so fearful of the whisperings of children and cowards.”

“I’m not afraid,” You retorted weakly, “I only…I–”

“People will always talk and they will always be cruel,” Thranduil interjected bluntly, “There’s nothing to be done about them, but you can change yourself.”

He had stayed until the sun began to rise and your black curtains lightened to a dark grey, showing you his trick though you were not sure you would be able to do it without him. Yet, when he had passed back through the door and left you on your own, the disguise as held and you could barely believe it. As you stood hypnotized by your own appearance, tears formed in the corner of your eyes though they went no further.

You wanted to go out and show Tilda and bask in the sunlight and yet the fear remained. _What if the moment you went into the light it all faded away and you were revealed for what you truly were?_ You finally tore your eyes from your own face and turned to the room, the lamp was still burning, though the wick was nearly depleted and the oil low. 

Beside it lay the bundle of tulips and daffodils you had collected in the moonlight. You crossed the room and pulled and old velvet tie from a dusty drawer and grabbed the flowers, securing them together carefully. You set them back down as you let down your hair, running your fingers through the thick waves.

A sudden rush of excitement streamed through you and you hurried into your bedroom, searching through the clutter atop the dresser. You pulled the brush from the pile and ran it through your hair before arranging it into a low bun, neater than it had been in quite a time. You opened your closet door and searched through your musty garments, finding a straight-collared blouse and a heavy skirt with floral patterns embroidered along the hem.

You hooked the last button of the blouse and passed back into the next room, lifting your cloak from across the chair and onto your shoulders. You neared the looking glass once more as you buckled the clasp and peered into it anxiously, your face still unmarred. Your hands froze as you felt another rush flow through you and slowly you undid your cloak, letting it drop to the floor.

You donned your leather boots and retrieved the bouquet from the table before you found yourself frozen before the front door. You stared at the heavy lock and urged yourself to unlatch it, the sunlight beckoning from the other side. Slowly, you slid it over and gripped the handle with one last prayer before shifting it open an inch at a time.

You stepped out into the sunlight, biting your lip as you paused to pull the door closed behind you. You glanced along the garden which lined the stone wall of your house, the blooms growing more colourful by the day. The sight filled you with nostalgia and another emotion which seemed wholly unfamiliar. 

You turned back to the walk and looked to the streets beyond. You could not wait to see Tilda, to show her what you had learned. You hoped she would like the flowers and _oh, what would she think? Would she truly think you were beautiful now? Would she have more than comforting words? What would the king think? Would he—_

The king. _What did it matter to you what he thought?_ He only abided you for the sake of his daughter and you best remind yourself before you sunk so foolishly into fantasy. You brought the flowers up to smell them and were almost tempted to hide behind the bunch of petals. _What if the glamour had fallen away and you were once more a monster?_

You kicked yourself into step before you could think to turn back and braced yourself for the stares and whispers. You turned quickly onto the next lane, walking along the row of shops, the heels of your boots tapping upon the cobbles. You stopped at the next turn to let a rider pass and peered sideways into a shop window. Slowly you focused on your reflection and saw that your face remained whole.

You inhaled deeply, a sense of relief filling you before you recalled your mission. You fell back into motion and kept your feet moving as your heart pounded faster with each step. Before you knew it, you stood before the royal household, gazing up at the stone façade as thoughts flurried through your head. It was not many steps, only a dozen perhaps, but it seemed a far climb in your mind.

You set your toe on the edge of the first stair and slowly brought up the next. The third was easier and your steps grew lighter as you ascended further. At last, you were before the large wooden door, the gilt knocker staring back at you, and you slowly a deliberately clanged it three times.

You shifted on your feet as you awaited an answer and with each passing second, you felt certain that there would be none. Suddenly, footsteps neared on the other side and your furiously beating heart had seemed to slow to a whisper. The hinges creaked a moment before the door shifted inward though you were not met by the face you had hoped.

“Lady [Y/N]?” The grey-haired woman’s voice was stunned, “What, uh–?”

“Malory,” You greeted as you found your voice, “I’ve come to see Tilda…To give her these,” You held out the flowers awkwardly, “I figured they’re as much hers as they are mine.”

“…Yes,” She finally spoke, though her expression remained agog, “I’ll go find the girl. Come in.”

She stepped away and waved you inside, her motions seemed forced as she kept glancing back at you. You could not tell if it was a pleasant surprise or not for the woman but she left you in silence and your nerves stirred in your stomach as you waited by the door. You loosened your grip on the bouquet, realizing you had nearly crushed the stems and listened eagerly for the sound of footfalls.

Voices came from another room and floorboards groaned before the door opened and the small blond girl appeared down the hall. She saw you and smiled, nearing you before suddenly stopping in her tracks and gaping at you. 

“[Y/N],” She said as her eyes widened, “Wh-what happened to your face?”

“I…fixed it,” You explained and the corners of your mouth twitched, “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“…It is,” She answered though her brows furrowed, “But…why?”

“Why not?” You replied and you were no longer so close to smiling, “I was hideous.”

“No, you weren’t,” She argued and you could not understand her reaction, “You were beautiful the way you were.”

“I was a monster!” You retorted, “Some grotesque creature for people to gawk at.”

“But you were you,” She countered glumly, “You shouldn’t care so much about other people.”

“Stop,” You hissed as your shoulders dropped, “You don’t know what it was like…” You bit your lip sharply, “I brought you some flowers.”

“Oh?” She looked at the bouquet as you held out before reaching out to take it, “Thank you, [Y/N].”

“Why are you acting like this?” You asked desperately, “I thought you would be happy for me… I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends,” She insisted as she stepped nearer, “I’m only trying to help.”

“No, you’re not,” You backed away, “Don’t you understand? I don’t want to be a freak.”

“But you’re not a freak,” She argued, her voice rising, “You were beautiful the way you were.”

“Stop saying that! No, I wasn’t,” You asserted as you turned away and crossed to the door, “But I was stupid… for ever thinking that I was anything to you but a novelty.”

“[Y/N]…” She began but you ripped the door open and slipped out, nearly slamming it behind you.

You stomped down each step as anger brimmed within you and all you wanted was to get home. You could not believe how foolish you had been. _Why had you ever fostered the idea of a friendship with Tilda?_ She was just a naïve little princess with nothing better to do than to entertain herself by toying with the town hermit.

You reached the bottom of the steps and turned sharply but found yourself stopped by an unexpected barrier. In your despair, you had failed to pay heed to your surroundings and had walked head-first into another person.

“Sorry, I–” You began to apologize until you looked up to find Bard staring down at you, his features limned with confusion.

“[Y/N],” He said with awe, “Your face.”

You could only stare back at him silently as his eyes showed a dozen different thoughts and you wondered at what they were.

“What did you do?” His brow wrinkled as his curiosity deepened, “The burns?”

“I, uh…” You did not know how to explain and you were too overwhelmed to think of anything, “It’s…”

“What’s the matter?” His tone changed as he filled with concern, “Why are you storming out of my house?”

“Nothing,” You lied trying to sidestep him, “Truly. You needn’t worry yourself about me.”

“But I don’t–” He continued to half-sputter his words, “How did you get rid of the burns?”

“I didn’t,” You admitted as he stopped you from going further, “It’s not real…it’s just a dumb trick. I’m still a monster.”

“Don’t say that,” He frowned and the lines around his mouth deepened, “You’re not a monster. You never were.”

“I will always be a monster,” You rasped, trying to hold back your anger, “It doesn’t matter what I do.”

You looked down and brought your hands up over your face, trying to recall what Thranduil had told you. You could feel the glamour falling away and you dropped your hands, lifting your head once more to look at Bard.

“Always,” You repeated with venom, “Can’t you see?”

“[Y/N], truly, you’re anything but,” He caught your eyes with his, “How many times must I say it?”

“You and your daughter tell the same lies,” You spat, backing away from him.

“No, you lie to yourself,” He caught your arm before you could step past him, “The only monsters in this city are the ones who treat you like one.”

“Please,” You avoided his eyes, “You don’t have to–”

“[Y/N], look at me,” He ordered as he stepped closer, “Your scars do not make you hideous, they mark your courage.”

You looked up without a word as his struck you like a kick to the chest and you searched his face for deceit but found none.

“Smaug’s flame did not burn away your beauty, it made it greater,” His voice was low as he kept hold of your arm, “I do not know what Tilda said but I suspect she was right.”

You looked down guiltily, recalling how you had rebuked the girl. Instead of hearing her words, you only heard your own self-pitying thoughts.

“Beauty is not skin deep,” Bard said, “It cannot be burned away so easily. You’re as beautiful as you were when you sold blue bells by the docks, otherwise you would never have allowed Tilda past your front door.”

You bit your lip once more, ashamed by his words and your own vanity as you kept your eyes on the ground. You had chased away your only friend over your own wounded ego.

“[Y/N],” He released your arm and brought his hand up under your chin, lifting your face so that you were looking at him, “You have no cause to be ashamed of who you are.”

You struggled to come up with a response but could only look back at him abashedly, feeling yourself wavering under his gaze.

“Please,” His thumb lightly grazed your jaw and he felt the mottled flesh of your cheek, “Come back inside and speak with Tilda, I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”

“I…” You moved your lips but could produce no words.

“She is your friend, [Y/N],” He insisted, “And so am I.”

“…I’m sorry, Bard,” Your voice was almost a whisper, “I didn’t…”

“I know, [Y/N],” He smiled at you gently, “And so does Tilda. Now, please, come with me inside and you will see.”

“Thank you,” You uttered weakly, letting go of your frown.

“That’s better,” He said as he took your hand and turned you back towards the steps, “Now, let’s go. It should be time for tea and Tilda hates to be kept waiting.”


	4. As the Embers Glow

You sat before the large stone hearth, the very spot having grown familiar and almost welcoming. Once, Tilda had perched herself upon your doorstep and insisted upon forcing her presence. Now, you were the intruder, although it felt less and less of an imposition.

How could you feel anything but content with the girl sitting cross-legged before you, her bright eyes focused on you?

She seemed not to even notice your disfigurement. The burns seemed invisible to her as she was enraptured by the rhythm of your voice. You read from the yellowed pages, their edges charred and worn. Many of the words were so faded, one could barely make them out, a scattering of letters across a dingy plain. But you had read the tome so often, you could nearly recite from memory. It had been your only company since the burning of Laketown; the only but Tilda.

And her family. Bard’s house was the only place you felt comfortable with yourself. Enough that you could discard your hood and bare your face, though intermittent and sudden surges of embarrassment washed over you. You recalled your freakish reflection in the dusty cracked mirror which hung upon your wall and at times you subconsciously hid behind your hands, though one was as scarred as your face.

It was the streets of Dale which caused your the most discomfort. You still walked them hesitantly; cautiously. Your hood pulled low and shoulders stooped. Only venturing out before the boom of the market and after the sun began its sonorous descent. Bard and Tilda had been right; you could not hide what had befallen you, nor could you reverse time and undo it.

Lost in your thoughts, you had not realized the absence of your own voice, only the chirping of another. You looked up to Tilda as she called your name, tilting her head curiously as you stared back bewildered. You could hear Sigrid in the kitchen with Malory, their voices mingling over the clink and clank of pots. Bain sat in his chair, toying with a wooden dagger his father had carved him, oblivious to your storybook. A rush of displacement overcame you but was quickly quelled by the little girl’s voice.

“Are you okay? Is something the matter?” Her round eyes filled with concern, “You just…stopped.”

“S-sorry, Tilda,” You reached up to brush a curl from your forehead, feeling the mottled skin along your hairline, “I was just thinking…Ahem, let us continue. We are nearly to my favourite part.”

“Mine, too!” Tilda nearly sang as she sat back, smiling patiently as you found your place.

The book was older than you were. Your mother had given it to you when you were a girl, telling you how your grandmother had done the same to her. It was a book of children’s tales and yet you could still lose yourself in its fantasies. It was the only possession you had salvaged from Laketown, the rest of your books lost to the dragon’s flames.

You chased away your mournful thoughts for the words set before you. It was these small moments, when you forgot your own tragedy that you were nearly as you had been. You could almost feel the same bliss you had once found in Laketown. As you sat in your garden or baked in your kitchen, the rare sunlight of the misty city shining in, you could almost convince yourself that Smaug had never arrived.

The front door creaked faintly from the foyer, familiar footfalls sounding on the woven mug across the entry way. “Hello?” Bard greeted as you listed to the muffled rustle of fabric. He entered as he did most nights; he would dust his boots, hang his jacket, and call for his children, but this night he received little response.

He repeated himself as he appeared in the doorway of the sitting room, his usually dour expression creasing to a wide smile as he took in the scene. “Da,” Bain mumbled as he continued to flip his knife, fumbling it as he failed at his trick. Tilda uncrossed her legs as you ceased your reading, running to her father with open arms. So engrossed had she been that she only then realized his arrival.

“Tilda,” He embraced her before bending to kiss the top of her head, his eyes found you and you were want to hide behind your book. Though he had seen your true face more than any, it still troubled you. You couldn’t help but take his goodwill as pity. “Y/N,” He stepped within as sat in the arm chair not far from you, “Where’s Sigrid?”

“In the kitchen,” Tilda shrugged as she retook her seat upon the carpet, “She said she was done with children for the day.”

“Why, I’d say she’s still a child herself…but perhaps that is the mere denial of an aging father,” Bard lamented with a wry grin, “I should count myself fortunate I’ve not yet a line of suitors at my door yet…though that may just be the fear of youth holding the boys at bay.”

You chuckled despite yourself, trying to think of something to say, but at a loss you opted to return to the text before you. As you quietly searched for your place, you heard the distinct friction of paper on paper and Bard cleared his throat, as if uncertain of himself.

“I, uh, received a message from Mirkwood today,” It was not often he shared his royal business, thus you looked over your shoulder curiously, making sure to do so that the unmarred side of your face appeared to him, “And, I believe, so did you, Y/N.”

“Pardon,” You closed your book and turned completely, “I don’t know anyone in Mirkwood. I’ve never met many elves.”

“But at least one,” Bard held out an envelope, a silver wax seal upon its lip, “It’s addressed to you. I suppose the emissary was unsure how to find you.”

You swallowed, slowly reaching out to the take the letter. You felt the thick paper with your burnt fingertips, tracing the letters across it; _‘Lady Y/N of Dale’._ How fanciful a title. It nearly made you laugh but you were more inclined to frown.

“Why would–” You looked to Bard who shrugged, his lips pursed as if to say ‘open it and find out’.

You stood, suddenly anxious, leaving your book on the floor as you began to pace and chew your lip. You were nearly trembling as you forced yourself to stand still, tearing open the wax seal and unfolding the parchment within. You exhaled as you read the elegant letters; only a king could write so nicely.

_‘My lady Y/N,_

_I’ve invited your king, Bard of Dale, to travel to Mirkwood for courtly business and would extend the same invitation to you. Our kingdom possesses wonders unknown to mankind and I should to share that with you. A woman who has borne such calamity as yourself should bask in that beauty which remains to this world._

_I have also the privilege of an elvish healer well-versed in dragon fire who I should be happy to refer you too. Myself victim to the flames of dragons know the discomfort they can cause even after healing._

_It would be my honour to have you in Mirkwood and should hope you accept my invitation,_

_His Majesty,_

_Thranduil, King of Mirkwood and the Woodlands’_

You were frowning deeper as you lowered the letter and looked to Bard. “You’re going to Mirkwood?”

“Yes,” He looked to Bain and Tilda who listened curiously, “The children, too, though I had not thought to tell them so soon.”

“Is that where the elves live?” Tilda nearly sang, “Oh, I love the elves. They’re so pretty!”

Much more than me, you thought forlornly to yourself. “He has invited me as well, but I know not why,” You sighed and began to pace once more, “I only met him by chance. And we spoke for only an hour or two. Perhaps a little longer but it did not seem significant at all,.”

You were rambling to yourself as you waved the invitation wildly, “Why would he want me there? I’ve no business upon a royal visit. I barely know him, truly I know him not at all. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” You were so frantic, you forgot your audience until a hand touched yours.

You were surprised however to turn to find Bard rather than his youngest daughter. His deep brown eyes were sympathetic as he caught your hand, forcing you to cease your steps. “Y/N, you do not have to accept,” He assured you, his finger stroking the the back of your burned hand. It was a gesture so small and yet so warm that it calmed you. But it also scared you and you pulled away from him, ashamed that he should touch your pocked skin. “But I think you should. Get away from Dale and go somewhere new. It would be like a vacation.”

“From what?” You muttered shamefully, “There is no recess for me…not truly.”

“Oh, please, Y/N,” Tilda was suddenly at your side, “I do not want to go without you. I do so wish you had come to the Mountain with us, it was so much fun. I can only imagine the elves would be even more so.”

“Tilda, you don’t understand,” You looked between her and her father, “It’s not that easy for me.”

“Please. Malory can tend to your garden and make sure your house is safe,” She was nearly begging as she clasped her hands together, “Besides, Da doesn’t have any other friends and he’s not so nice to the elf king.”

“Tilda,” Bard reprimanded but you could see the amusement in his dark eyes.

“I, uh…” You bit your lip, unthinkingly rubbing the burns along your chin, “I guess…I could. Um…alright.”

You could barely breath as you gave your half-acceptance, unable to smile despite your efforts. It was becoming more and more difficult to refuse the little girl. Though this time, you were certain it could only end in disaster.

* * *

You stared at the void within your closet. Only a few garments hung within, each one greyer than the last, most of them black. You didn’t really have the wardrobe to visit an elvish kingdom. In fact, those few pieces you did have, were moth-bitten and patched discoveries left behind by the former inhabitants of the city.

You chose the only black skirt which had not needed patching and a matching blouse which only needed its seam restitched. You polished your scuffed boots as best you could and hoped you could make yourself scarce enough not to be noticed. There was enough to worry about and it had been long since you had even troubled yourself with an issue as miniscule as clothing.

Looking in the mirror, you sighed and stared as the smooth flesh turn motley. Every day since you had met Thranduil, you had rehearsed the glamour but you did not wear the facade in public. You knew the people would only whisper further. A magicker, witch, trickster. You were coming to accept that you could never silence nor content them.

You pulled your hood up and shook your head. It seemed to you that people could be crueler than dragons. At least those fiery beasts were honest of their nature. You turned around, taking in the grey corners of your small house. The thought of being away for so long scared you. A week, even two. It felt an eternity in your mind.

You shoved the few presentable pieces of clothing in a leather satchel along with some other necessities and slung it over your shoulder. You made sure to tuck your treasured book in the bottom, hoping to comfort yourself with it in during your travels. You couldn’t believe you had been coerced into going. It was as if Tilda could talk you into anything.

With one last glance around the dusty hovel, you faced the door and set your hand upon its latch. The sun light was much brighter as you opened it, stepping out into the heat, the blazing giant bearing down on you. Your hood did little to protect you, only shielding you from meddling eyes. It would be your only armor in the days to come.

* * *

You had not been astride a horse in a very long time. In your life, you had only ever mounted the beasts on several occasions but it was preferable to travelling in the coach. You had found during your first day of travel that Tilda was even more bothersome than before and her naive chatter piqued your anxiety. The only boon was that you didn’t need to hide beneath your hood in the carriage.

Sweat trickled down your neck as you followed the winding path, the Mirkwood trees looming overhead. The sun was beginning to sink and the light came dimmer through the thickly curtained branches. A mild chill bit beneath the summer breeze but the thick wool of your cape was suffocating. You mulled over your impending destination, praying you were not asked to surrender your disguise.

Perhaps the elven king would take pity on you, was not that the reason he had invited you on a royal visit? He had seen your scars and shared similar ones, he would know the shame concealed behind your cloak.  _Did he not hide his own scars?_  But he did it much more convincingly and he did not carry himself like a crippled deer. It was easier when you did not have a shroud over your shoulders.

A bridge arched before you, the king leading his escort and you slowed your mount. You kept to the rear as you passed through the streets of Mirkwood, the palace growing nearer with each clop of your horse’s shoes. You gulped and closed your eyes, the mare following naturally behind the rest. You felt the tingle along your jawline, crawling up your cheek, encircling your eye.

You dismounted after Bard and watched as he crossed to the carriage, opening the door as he poked his head inside. You heard muffled words and soon the children climbed out into the evening light, stifling yawns behind their hands. You hoped Thranduil did not have much planned for his guests that night; many were too tired to bear it.

You were startled by a page who appeared beside you; a lithe elven youth offering to stable your mount. Graciously, you handed over your reins and turned back to Bard and his brood, pulling back your hood after a moment of doubt. You exhaled and neared the clan, the king of Dale looked up and failed to hide his disappointment.

“Your face?” He tilted his head and you looked away, assured that the glamour had worked.

“Please, Bard, we’re in a city of elves…” You glanced at Tilda as she took your hand, “Please allow me this act of vanity…of desperation.”

“Da,” Tilda said, almost warning her father.

“Sorry,” Bard muttered, “I didn’t mean anything, I just…you shouldn’t be so afraid of yourself.”

“I’m not afraid of me,” You shrugged him of and he turned away to oversee his men and the elven equerries.

“It’s alright, Y/N,” Tilda swung your hand, “You’re beautiful no matter what.”

“Hmmm,” You clasped your lips together, tiring of being told the same lie anon.

You waited patiently as the chaos began to calm and followed Bard up the palace steps, an elven valet guiding him inside the opulent abode. You were agog as you took in the branched walls, the twisting fingers of elm and oak, the coloured glass set in abstruse patterns. You had not been far from Laketown, no further than Dale, in your life and the inadequacy which filled you made it all too apparent.

“Through here,” The valet stopped for only a moment as two tall doors were opened by a pair of finely armored guards.

Within, what you assumed was the throne room shone brightly, candles limned the narrow walkway and a grand chair was topped by the regal elven king. Thranduil rose as the party from Dale entered though Bard did not falter, even when faced in his dusty riding clothes by the brocade-draped monarch of Mirkwood.

“King Bard, you’ve made quick progress,” Thranduil stepped down from his perch, a stately smirk upon his lips, “And your children. I trust your travels were safe.”

“Steady enough,” Bard answer, “King Thranduil, we are most grateful for your invitation. The men of Dale are most eager to seal our alliance with the elves of Mirkwood.”

“You were so kind as to invite me into your lands that I could not think to refuse you the same. Besides, the summers come arid to Dale but Mirkwood blossoms, fragrant and peaceful. Elvish kingdoms are a marvel in those warmer months,” His silver eyes twinkled and fell to you as if you had just appeared behind the King of Dale, “And Lady Y/N, I am gladdened for your presence. I thought the trek too much for you.”

“Not at all,” You bowed your head, not so use to the formality of court, “I am honored by your invitation. I would not think it warranted.”

“A friend of Bard is a friend of mine,” He lifted his chin back to the aforementioned king, “Your people must be tired from the road. I would not keep you further. We will have more than enough time for our business.” For a moment, his bright eyes flickered back to you, “Much and more for you to explore Mirkwood and its wonders. I should bid you all a good night and we may reconvene on the morn.”

“Very well,” Bard accepted his dismissal cordially and turned back, rustling Bain’s hair as he yawned, “You heard the elf,” He kept his voice low, “To bed, children.”

You had not realized Tilda was still clinging to you and she nearly toppled as you made to turned her around. She was asleep on her feet and you caught her before she could fall. You lifted her and kept her balanced on your hip, her head upon her shoulder as she snored softly in your ear. You smiled to yourself as you followed the rest of the party back to the corridor, as eager as any to retire.

You felt a hand on your elbow and looked over to Bard as he kept stride beside you, a curious yet perturbed expression furrowed his brow.

“What?” Your smile fell as you saw his brown eyes darken.

“Thranduil, you and him,” He chewed his lip as thoughts swirled across his face, “You never really talked about your conversation. Only that he taught you that little trick.”

“That’s all it was,” You said, recalling nothing special about it, “I only think he feels sorry for me, you know. It’s nothing. Nothing worth caring about, especially you. You’ve better things to fret over.”

“I don’t–” He stopped himself, brushing away a strand of hair from his forehead, “You’re probably right. A few hours talking, couldn’t mean much, could it?” He rambled to himself as you withheld a sigh; you were exhausted and not of the mood, “He is not above a little honey to make certain of a deal and I think he is too prideful to admit he wants it as much as us.”

“Mmm-hmm,” You nodded as if you understood or cared, “Likely.”

“Your majesty,” The valet interrupted, stood before another pair of double doors, “Your chambers. For you and your children. There are several within, all attached.”

“Thank you,” You were relieved to have his attention elsewhere. He took Tilda from you carefully, “Good night, Y/N.”

“Good night,” You watched him followed the valet as you waited in the corridor to be shown to your own. Hopefully you would be in bed before you could think too much on Bard’s cryptic words.

* * *

The night passed quickly but restless. Being so far from Dale had unsettled you and amidst the beauty of the elvish city, you felt displaced. The glamour fell the moment you closed the door and as the morning brightened outside you your window, you stared into the mirror and conjured the facade once more.

You dressed slowly, reluctantly. Each button was harder to hook and you dreaded the days to come.  _How long could you pretend to be what you had been?_  It felt eons since you had been untouched by the dragon’s fire. As if you had never been normal. You had forgotten what it was like not to hide.

You rubbed your hands together, the flesh coarse though it looked as smooth as its counterpart. You thought of how to thank Thranduil for the trick but your reticence subdued the urge. The kindness the elven king had shown you was merely an act of sympathy. You had not a crown to atone for your deformity nor the stature to carry them as gracefully.

You forced yourself from your chamber, feeling naked as you had left behind your usual cloak. Your grey blouse and black skirt felt drab against the opulence of the palace. Even without the burns, you were a mouse in tall grass. You could not even compare to the servants of Mirkwood, themselves in varied shades of blue and green.

Unsure of which turn to take, you paused at the first corner, wringing your hands nervously. An equerry appeared at your shoulder as if summoned by your indecision. “My lady,” He greeted, “Your king has risen already and dines with our King Thranduil in the great hall. Would you join them?”

“Um, of course,” You nodded, folding one hand over the other to still your fidgeting, “If you would show me the way.”

“My lady,” He bowed and turned, waving you forward sternly.

You followed, dragging your feet as you heard voices coming clearer with each step. Another pair of immense doors welcomed you, the equerry moving aside to let you through. Elves lined either side of the long table, the small party of men grouped at one end. Bard sat opposite to Thranduil who was at the head of the table, the pair of kings seated as if to battle the other.

As you neared, headed for the further end of the table where Bard sat, his children closest to him, you heard your name. The voice was easily discerned and you looked over to Thranduil as he leaned on the arm of his chair, the seat beside him empty. He waved his hand towards it in invitation and you couldn’t fathom refusing a king, especially one who was hosting your people.

You glanced once more towards Bard who was now staring at you. He nodded at you as he seemed to understand the situation, or perhaps you imagined the gesture. He looked to the elven king, his usually warm eyes turning cold. You had never thought the two kings to be contentious, though you had little to base that impression on. Perhaps, the King of Dale was tired or merely putting on his courtly mask.

Tearing your mind from your own liege, you turned to your host and inched towards him precariously. He stood as you approached, only retaking his own seat as you lowered yourself onto the thin leather cushion stretched across an oaken frame. You squirmed as he watched you, avoiding his gaze as you considered the spread of dishes before you.

“You look well-rested,” He leaned in, keeping his voice low, forcing you to look at him, “You’ve perfected the glamour quite well.”

“Uh, thank you,” You resisted reaching up to touched your masked scars, “And you. I’d never had guessed…I mean, hummmm,” You sighed before you could ramble, “Thank you for inviting me. You didn’t need to.”

“My dear, of course I did,” The epithet surprised you, his tone even more, “If I had not, you would not have strayed much further than your hovel.”

You looked down embarrassed and cleared your throat, unsure of how to respond. You could have been offended but he was right and even so, he was still a king.

“My apologies, I should not be so crass,” He drank from his crystal goblet before continuing, “I invited you because I wanted to. It has no bearing on your king or your misfortune. Tilda said much of you and I found it to be true.” He grinned and you merely stared back wordless, “You know, despite yourself, you’re rather intriguing.”

“Mmm,” You clenched your jaw nervously, forcing your sweaty hands apart as to not seem as intimidated as you felt.

“When I’ve had a chance to sort out my kingly business with your king, I’ll show you around the palace,” He took up his fork, spearing a piece of egg but making no move to eat it, “And I’ll introduce you to Lorath. He’s our resident healer and has done much for my own wounds.”

“Alright,” You tugged nervously on your own sleeve, shifting in your seat anxiously.

“Please, eat,” His eyes flicked towards your empty plate, “Enjoy.”

With that, Thranduil popped the chunk of egg and looked down the length of the table, his silver eyes sparking at something, or someone, you could not see. He seemed to forget your presence and yet loomed over you. You tried to distract yourself by scooping some egg and hash onto your plate, but couldn’t shake the feeling that you were missing some intonation.


	5. Flaring Out

Your appetite was lacking but you spent most of breakfast silent. You pushed the food around and stared at the golden edging along the plate’s rim, listening to the elvenking’s voice as he talked to you and the elves who sat nearest. You had never felt more out of place, and even with your scars hidden, you could not shake the sense of displacement.

Thranduil rose suddenly and you followed suit, knowing enough courtesy for at least that. He finished the dregs of his wine before turning to you, offering a deferential bow of his head, “Lady Y/N, it was lovely dining with you, even if you aren’t much of a talker. I should hope we have another opportunity to do so before your departure,” His eyes flicked behind you, “But I should begin my day before it is too far gone. I shall come see you later as promised.”

“Y-your majesty,” You stuttered, overwhelmed by his air of regality, “Thank you.”

He stepped around you swiftly and you turned to watch him leave. As you stood beside your chair, a dark figure appeared next to you and you looked over at Bard who peered at the doorway in kind. 

“Sometimes he’s nicer than you’d expect,” The king of Dale crossed his arms, “Though it doesn’t come across as any more genuine than his usual manner.”

You looked at Bard, measuring his warning as he finally peeked over at you, “I’m sure he means well, but…” He pushed his hair back and forced his arms apart, “He is not the type to do anything outside his own benefit.”

“I know his reputation,” You shrugged, trying not to reveal your own misgivings. It would be your riddle to unwind. “Don’t you have your own kingly business to attend to?”

“I do and I know Thranduil is not to be kept waiting long,” He said, “I was hoping, well, Tilda was hoping, you’d spend the day with her. It would keep me from worrying after her. I know you’ve not come as a child-minder, so I understand if–”

“No, no, it’s quite alright,” You smiled meekly, “I do not fancy spending my first day here alone.”

“Thank you,” Bard’s arm twitched and you watched his fingers twiddle as he stutter stepped un place, “I’ll owe you…I should go before I no longer have the will to.”

“You should,” You agreed, awkwardly watching him fidget. You didn’t often see him so unnerved, “I’ll go fetch Tilda before she can get lost.”

You stepped around Bard before he could trip over himself and nodded a silent farewell. You headed down the length of the table towards the three royal children of Dale, taking the seat their father had left vacant. You looked back to the other end of the hall. As you did, you caught Bard’s eye as he paused in the doorway to watch you before disappearing into the corridor.

* * *

The stone bench was cold through the flannel of your skirt even in the heat of the elvish summer. Tilda knelt across from you, her back turned as she gathered several stems from the elaborate garden plots. The hedges and flowers were arranged in a semi-labyrinth, twisting and turning out of sight.

She had kept you occupied for the better part of the day and it was comforting to have her near. She had grown familiar and you had not realized how much. However, there was tinge of sadness to your content. You could never see yourself having a child and Tilda could never be yours. It was almost frightening to realize how much you were coming to wish she was.

She stood with her bouquet and walked back to you, holding out the bunch with a wide smile. You took it from her with a mumbled thank you as she sat beside you, swinging her legs from the tall-legged bench. You stared at the petals, each flower a different colour, and sniffed as wafts of pollen filled your nose.

“They’re pretty, Tilda,” You commented as you lowered the bouquet, cradling it lazily across your lap, “I know I’m not very much fun, but thank you for putting up with me.”

“I like being with you,” She shrugged, “Plus, I thought…” She paused and looked around, “The king scares me. The elf…I saw him talking to you and–” She bit her lip, her childish mind trying to articulate her fears, “Is that why you hide your scars? Because of him?”

“No, I hide them because of me,” You touched her elbow gently, “Tilda, look, I know you only mean well, but I just can’t. You’re young and you’ve got a whole lifetime ahead of you. You have hope. Me, I had that life and it all burned away in the matter of seconds. I know I can’t truly change what happened to me or my scars but it doesn’t mean I have to let everyone see what I’ve lost.”

“I think I understand,” She said quietly, “I just want you to be happy.”

“…Me too,” You sighed and hung your head, avoiding Tilda’s gaze, “I suppose we should get you back soon. Your father will be finishing his business shortly.”

You stood and arranged the bundle of flowers so they did not fall, helping Tilda down from the tall bench. She took your hand in hers as you peered across the hedges one last time. You had dreamed long ago of having a garden so immaculate, but in Laketown it had only been fantasy. Your small plots of bluebells and chrysanthemums had been more than enough.  _Had._

“Will you stay for dinner tonight?” Tilda asked as you turned to lead her away, but another voice rose and a shadow loomed from the garden entrance, frightening you before you could answer.

“My apologies, Princess,” Thranduil drawled as he neared with measured steps, “But I was just here to offer the same invitation to our Lady Y/N. I would be in your debt if you would allow me the honour of supping with her. Just this once.”

Tilda looked between you and the elvenking, your surprise still evident. You squeezed her hand but nodded slightly, assuring her that you be fine. “I-I…” She stuttered. You had forgotten she was not so forward with other people, “Okay.”

“Let’s get you back to your father first,” You offered, “He’ll be happy to see you after such a long day.”

“Yeah…” Tilda looked at her feet and dug her toe into the ground, “I guess.”

You sent Thranduil an appeasing glance, hoping he wouldn’t push the girl too much.

“Your father will be most happy to see you,” Thranduil offered his hand to Tilda but she sighed away. He rescinded it peaceably and instead, guided you through the entrance of the gardens. “I promise, you will have Y/N to yourself tomorrow. You have my vow as King of Mirkwood.”

Tilda squeezed your hand and stayed silent. You gripped the flowers tighter in your other hand and sent Thranduil another warning look before finding your voice. 

.“I think Tilda may just be a better florist than me,” You mused lightly, “She arranged this bouquet for me and I don’t think I’ve every seen anything prettier.”

“Mirkwood is blessed to have such an array of greenery,” Thranduil boasted, “Though I would say the flowers are nothing compared to you, Y/N.”

You nearly choked on your tongue at the unexpected compliment and you felt Tilda tug on your arm. Her face was scrunched in distaste as she listen to the elven king and you would have laughed if you were not so bewildered. Thranduil was likely trying to put on his best mask for the royal daughter. Nothing more.

“Thank you,” You mumbled, following Thranduil’s direction as you traversed the intricate palace corridors. You watched the sunlight steam along the woodland walls, trying to muster any conversation to abate the thickening silence.

“Here we are,” Thranduil stopped before a familiar door and you realized you had not been quick enough, “I’m sure your father is waiting for you just now.”

“Sure,” Tilda let go of your hand reluctantly as she stared down the elven king, “I guess…” Finally she turned to you, “Good night.”

“Tilda,” You leaned down, speaking softly as Thranduil backed away, taking the hint, “I’ll be back to see you tomorrow morning. Promise. But I think I owe it to the king to accept his invitation. He didn’t have to welcome me along with you and your family.”

“I guess,” She swayed guiltily in place.

“Besides, how often do I dine with you, hmm?” You pushed away a stray hair across her cheek, “I’m sure I won’t miss out on much. And your father deserves a night with his family to himself.”

“But you–” She stopped as you set your hand on her shoulder firmly, “Good night, Y/N.”

“Good night, Tilda,” You echoed and she hugged you before your could stand straight, “Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She nodded as she released you and reached for the handle, sending one last skeptical look to Thranduil before she pushed inside. You glanced at Thranduil who seemed more amused than offended and he met your eyes with an even wider grin.

“Sorry, she’s shy,” You nearly dropped the bouquet, scrambling to keep the stems together.

“I understand…she’s a lot like you. She knows who she likes and who she doesn’t,” He held out his arm in a courtly fashion, “Best we be off. Our dinner should already be on its way.” You took his arm, the flowers clenched in your other hand. He led you along lithely as if floating across the polished floors. “Lorath is busy unfortunately. I had planned on us seeing him before we supped but healers are usually overworked.”

“It’s fine…not much can be done. The burns are healed,” You wanted to recoil from Thranduil but kept yourself in step, “You really don’t have to worry for me.”

“We will talk more of it after dinner,” He came upon two doors with attendants standing vigil outside.

The valets opened them without prompting and within awaited a table with two chairs. Food was already set out and lanterns lent the receiving chambers an amber glow. Thranduil led you within, detaching his arm from yours and pulling out a chair.

You sat as he took the flowers from you and searched along a shelf. He returned with a crystal vase and set the bouquet within. “We’ll have water added to it later,” He sat across from you and removed the covers from the platters, “So, how was your first day in Mirkwood?”

You took the silver fork in your hand, staring at its long handle as you thought. You felt as if you did not belong; sitting in a king’s presence, dining on fine foods, hiding behind your old face. You twirled the fork slowly between your fingers, forgetting the question he had asked.  _How was it you could not act normal for more than a minute?_

“Y/N,” His voice had grown sonorous and as you looked up, his grin fell, “Are you–”

You could tell by his reaction and the sudden coolness on the left side of your face that your glamour had cracked. You had been thinking too much and the pressure of sitting across from him was overwhelming. Thranduil’s skin began to dapple and crack as he uncovered his own scars. They were as deep as yours but his confidence diminished their ghoulishness.

“Better?” He offered. Despite the disparity between your bearings, it was like looking at another iteration of yourself; his colourless iris, his mottled flesh, the exposed muscle.

“You don’t have to…” You stilled your trembling hand, only then realizing you were shaking.

“You told me I don’t have to worry for you, but that’s not what it is,” He explained as he took the ewer from the tabletop and filled your glass and then his, “It is empathy. Those who have been touched by dragon fire share a special affinity. We know a pain, a shame which no one else can understand. Not unless they too have been burned.”

You set down your fork and steadied your hand with the wine glass, sipping from it before you replied. “Bard…he tells me I shouldn’t hide. I see the disappointment in him when I put on my mask and it hurts. But he doesn’t realize how painful it is to reveal my real face. And I just can’t explain it to him.”

You drank deeper, the alcohol give you strength. You didn’t know why you were saying so much to the king. Perhaps it was because he knew your pain, or perhaps you had finally reached your breaking point.

“In Dale, I never go anywhere without my hood. It is my only shelter. Even after you taught me how to hide…that would be even worse. For those people, the ones who whisper about me and stare, to know how afraid I truly am,” You set down your empty glass, embarrassed by how much you had drank, “Sorry, I’m rambling.”

“I don’t mind,” He sounded genuine for the first time. “It would be worse for you not to talk at all. I’ve been there, Y/N. If I were not a king, maybe I would be as you are. Likely I would. And it doesn’t make me weak, or you. We’ve survived the dragon’s wrath. Not many are so fortunate.”

You sniffed and rubbed your chin, feeling the roughened skin along the left side. You took your fork, suddenly ravenous, and speared a carrot on its tines. “You’re right,” You nodded, “So maybe I should appreciate what I have. This lovely meal you’ve had prepared,” You attempted your best smile, “Thank you. You were right. If I were still in Dale, I’d still be hiding in the dark.”

* * *

“I can’t,” You hiccuped as you tried to reassemble your glamour, giggling as you withheld a belch. “I think I had a bit too much.”

“It’s fine,” Thranduil’s own unburnt cheek was rosy from the wine, “Just put this up,” You had forgotten about the hood, still on your back as it had been all day. The king pulled the cloth up so that you were shielded in shadow, “Are you sure you can find your way back?”

“I should,” You sounded less certain than intended, “You’d barely be any help in your state.” The both of you had drained the entire jug of wine, “I’ll be alright.”

“I could walk you,” He insisted and you shook your head.

“No, no, you’ve done enough,” It had been a long time since you had felt so carefree. Even if it was the wine clouding your mind, it was nice. “Really, I should go.”

“Try not to get lost,” He sighed emphatically, “I’ve enough to worry about with that grim king of yours.”

“Yeah,” You pushed back your hood slightly to look up at him, “He is quite dour, isn’t he?”

“Shhh, we shouldn’t be so mean to him,” He chuckled, “I find most men are rather serious. I’d assume it’s inherent to the race.”

“So it seems,” You half-grinned; you were one to call someone dour, “Good night, your majesty.”

“Thranduil,” He corrected in a low voice, leaning down slowly and his lips grazed your cheek in a sloppy kiss, “Just Thranduil.”

You gulped as he pulled away and you half-turned to the doors, letting your hood fall forward to hide the blush rising in your cheek, “Good night, Thranduil.”

“Good night, Y/N.” He returned and you felt his gaze follow you as you reached for the handle, “Until the morrow, my lady.”

You hesitated before opening it, stepping into the hallway with bated breath. You exhaled in relief as you closed the door and found the corridor empty. You had feared the valets would remain and you’d be caught red-faced leaving the king’s chambers in the middle of the night. Not that it had been improper.

 _Had it?_  You swore you could still feel Thranduil’s lips on your cheek and you reached up to touch it beneath your hood. No, it had merely been a nicety, nothing more. The king was as drunk as you and had merely overdone his courtesy.  _How could it be anything else than your own misconception?_

Even if he did share the same scars, he could not possibly see past yours. A king could not lower himself so far. You already knew that.

* * *

You awoke in the clothes you had worn the day before. You groaned as you rolled over and opened your eyes. You swung your legs over the edge of the mattress and stood, stretching your arms over your head. You yawned as you picked up your hood from the floor where you had shed it the night before.

You touched your forehead as you recalled what had happened. Everything was a blur except for the kiss. It had not truly been a kiss, though. You had seen men kiss their grandmother’s with more intent than that. You needed to just forget it.

A knock interrupted your thoughts and you hurriedly shrouded yourself in your hood. You kept your head down as you opened the door and Tilda stood before you, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked. You would have been disappointed if it was anyone else.

“Did you want to go to breakfast?” She asked cheerily, “Da says I can’t go by myself and he’s taking forever.”

“Oh,” You looked down the corridor curiously, “Sure, why not? I just need to dress before we go.”

You ushered her into the chamber, gathering up a skirt and blouse before disappearing into your bath chamber. You dressed as quickly as you could and stared into the mirror, mustering the concentration to glamour your scars. Your skin turned smooth before your eyes and you paused as you turned to grab your hood from the hook. You wouldn’t need it.

You left the faded black cloak in the bath chamber and returned to Tilda who sat patiently in a chair. She hopped up from her seat as you slipped on your boots, hovering by the door as you readied yourself.

“All done,” You announced as you rebound your hair and neared her, “Let’s go.”

You closed your door behind you as Tilda skipped into the hall. You were too groggy to share her enthusiasm.

“Was the elven king nice to you?” She asked.

“Hmm,” You had not expected the blatant question, “I-uh, yeah. He’s not so bad.”

“Maybe but….he scares me,” Tilda took your hand as she walked; a habit you had grown used to, “He’s nice but he’s an elf.”

“What’s wrong with elves?” You urged.

“I don’t know, I just–the dwarves said they aren’t to be trusted,” She stated, “They let Smaug take the mountain.”

“Well, it’s not for us to say whether the elves were wrong,” You were not eager to involve yourself in that rivalry, “But the elves have treated us well, haven’t they?”

“I suppose, other than stealing you away last night…and at breakfast,” She grumbled, “You’re my friend.”

“I can be the king’s friend, too,” You nearly laughed at her jealousy.

“What about Da?” She prodded, “He’s your friend.”

“He is,” You assured her as you entered the dining hall. Neither king was sat along the table yet. “I thought you said I should have friends, Tilda.”

“No, I said you should be my friend,” She let go of you and crossed her arms as you pulled out a chair for her.

“You’re silly,” You chided her as you sat beside her, “I wouldn’t have come all the way to Mirkwood if I didn’t have a friend like you at my side.”

“You mean it?” She widened her eyes.

“I do,” You smiled as you scooped egg onto your plate and you sensed someone pass behind you.

Bard appeared on the other side of Tilda and sat heavily. “Tilda,” He ruffled her hair before pouring himself some tea, “Y/N.”

“Da,” She pushed away his hand and smoothed her hair with her fingers, “I told you not to do that.”

“Sorry,” He apologized with a smirk, “So, Y/N,” He leaned on the table so he could see around Tilda, “How was your dinner with the king last night?”

“Oh, you heard about that,” You glanced at Tilda who avoided your gaze, “It was dinner,” You kept your voice even, “Nothing special.”

“Mmm,” His lips slanted skeptically, “Not many are asked to dine privately with a king.”

“What does it matter? He was being nice, which is more than I would expect.”

“Exactly, he’s not really the most receptive person,” Bard’s eyes narrowed as they wandered behind you, “So I do wonder at his…motivations.”

Once more, you sensed a presence behind you and turned to find Thranduil approaching with the vase of flowers Tilda had gathered for you. “Lady Y/N,” He stopped beside your chair, “You forgot these last night.”

“Oh, uh,” You pushed your chair out and stood, awkwardly taking the vase from him, “Thank you.”

“Not at all,” He grinned and you looked over at your shoulder, Bard and Tilda watching the exchanged with matching grimaces, “Lorath also said he would see you after breakfast. If you wouldn’t mind, I should like to escort you there. So that you don’t get lost, of course.”

“Of course,” You accepted as you set down the vase beside you plate, “Thank you.”

“I’ll leave you to finish your meal, though,” He looked over your shoulder and bowed his head, “Bard, Tilda,” His voice was sickly sweet.

You sat as the elven king retreated and looked to the other king and his daughter. “What?”

“Nothing,” Bard shook his head, “I just never expected you two to get on so well.”

“I get on well with you, don’t I?” You replied sharply, “You are more alike than you would think.”

“And you would know that well from one dinner?” He scoffed.

“One dinner. What’s the big deal?” You couldn’t figure out why Bard had grown so suddenly prickly.

“Nothing, nothing,” He rubbed his jawline and looked away, “I shouldn’t…I’m sorry, Y/N. It’s none of my business.”

“It’s fine,” You scooped up a forkful of eggs, “I know he’s just being nice. He pities me.”

“Y/N,” Bard sputtered but his words died at your icy stare. You knew exactly where you stood, with both kings.

* * *

You walked beside Thranduil, too caught in your own mind to say anything. You kept thinking of your tense breakfast with Bard and it was troubling more than you liked.  _Why did he have to be so vague? Why did he care about you or Thranduil? Why could he just not accept you and your decisions?_  He just didn’t know what it was like.

“Y/N?” Your thoughts were broken as Thranduil caught your arm, stopping you in place, “We’re here.”

He looked to the door and released you, knocking on it three times. It opened swiftly as if the elf within had been awaiting you. The healer had shiny dark hair and a long nose, his brows finely groomed above his hazel eyes. He was like any other elf you had seen.

“This is Lorath, Y/N, and Lorath this is Y/N,” Thranduil waved you inside first as he followed, “She’s the woman I told you of. She survived Smaug’s attack.”

“Oh?” The healer looked over you, “She’s wearing a glamour.”

“She is, I taught it to her,” Thranduil explained as he sat in an armed chair.

“She wears it well,” He raised his arched brows as he spoke, “Not an easy task for a human. If you would.” He motioned you towards a stool, “I should like to examine you closer.”

You looked to Thranduil as he watched. “It is your decision, Y/N, but you will have to show him your true face.”

“No, no, I can do it,” You assured him as you sat, “He’s seen worse, I’m sure.”

“He has seen mine many a time,” Thranduil said in a comforting tone, “He is the only healer I could find who could tend to dragon burns.”

You nodded and looked across at Lorath, letting the glamour fade away. He had no reaction to the change and for once, neither did you. You just stared ahead as he peered closer and when he touched your cheek and the ridge of your empty eye socket, you stopped breathing.

“There is much trauma but you’ve healed well,” He commented, “What did you treat this with?”

“Wh-what?” You repeated, feeling light-headed.

“What did you treat the burn with?” He repeated, his finger continuing to probe your scars.

“D-don’t!” You swiped away his hand away, a tear trickling from your other eye. It was too much. To have someone touching your scars and talk of them as anything but repulsive. “I can’t, I can’t.” You stood, your breath returning to you in gasps, “I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m…” You hid behind your hands as you fought back more tears, “…hideous.”

“It’s quite alright, dear,” The healer’s tone was kinder than before, “I shouldn’t have presumed to be so handsy.”

“Y/N, “Thranduil was beside you, his hand on your shoulder, “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

“I thought….I’d be fine,” You pulled your hands away from your face, “I did. I tried.”

“That’s all you can do,” He let his hand travel to you back and he rubbed it warmly, standing snug against you.

“If I may though, I would offer a special salve,” Lorath spoke as if you had not just erupted, “Dragon burns carry ongoing effects, I know, and I prescribe the same to our king. He says it gives him relief.”

“Thank you,” You said in a small voice, taking the vial he offered you.

“Come on,” Thranduil snaked his arm around your shoulders as if he were afraid you would fall and turned you towards the door, “Let’s get you some air.”

“My face,” You reached up suddenly as you entered the corridor, the glamour having not been restored, “My face.”

“No one will see us,” He turned you down a narrow hallway, “Not where we’re going.”

You wondered at his ominous words but let him guide you further. You gripped the vial desperately at your side, blindly clinging to the king. Thranduil was unusually warm against your side and you let yourself be comforted by his presence. 


	6. To Cinder

You had finally caught your breath, only just realizing the peculiarity of your surroundings. While Mirkwood held to it a natural warmth and woodiness, it was as if the palace was turning wild.  The corridors were none you had seen before, the air was lighter and smelled of mist.

The branches which twined together to form the walls grew sparser and you found yourself in a courtyard, an immense waterfall the centerpiece of the spectacle before you. Marble benches lined the perimeter, hedges separating sitting areas, and flowers bloomed in every hue of the rainbow. The cascade rippled with pearl-like bubbles, the waters forming a glossy pool below.

Thranduil released you as you marveled at the scene, awestruck by its magnificence. In Laketown, the sunny days had been dampened by the gloomy waters. Even in Dale there had not be such serenity; the sun would rise so intense that it beat off the stone walls, setting your vision in a haze. This was next to paradise.

“What is this place?” You asked breathless, forgetting the hysteria which had overtaken you.

“The Royal Courtyard,” Thranduil explained, following just a step behind as you neared the edge of the water, “Only members of the royal family have such a privilege of frequenting it. Which would be only me, these days.”

“Oh,” You turned back to him in wonder, your mind sinking as you thought of how lonely he must be since the departure of his only son, “Do you come here often?”

“No,” He retreated, sitting on the bench not far from the water; placed for pristine viewing of the waterfall, “In truth, this is the first I’ve been here in months. Nearly a year.” His pale eyes grazed the pool behind you before focusing on you and the glamour fell away from his face, “But I thought it would calm you. A respite from this foreign court.”

Slowly, you neared him, stalling beside him as he watched your every movement. “May I sit?”

“Please,” He tilted his head and tore his eyes from you, returning his attention to the falls, “Do you feel better now?”

“Yes,” You answered honestly as you sat, folding your hands for a moment before pulling them apart and fidgeting with the crude fabric of your skirt. Next to his fawn leggings, you looked a right peasant. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have acted that way.”

“I understand, it is overwhelming,” The placid notes of his voice struck you as peculiar; vulnerable. You had only ever seen him as the icy king and Bard had warned you of the same. The monarch of Mirkwood was not known for his sensitivities. “And you did not ask to face the dragon as I did. I marched to battle knowing I could be branded by the beast’s breath. You were in your home and the fiend descended upon you.”

“Your majesty–” He looked to you once more and you stuttered, “Thranduil, why are you being so nice to me? Surely, that I have been disfigured is not worthy enough for…all this.” You gestured to the curated wilderness around you, “I am thankful but I fear I do not deserve all this.”

“I am a king, and I do as I want,” He declared, he flinched as if to reach over and still your fluttering hands but recoiled, raising his chin to the sunlight streaming in through the open ceiling, “It is both a curse and blessing. I can do as I want without question and yet questions all the same. There must be some machination behind my conduct, every word must have meaning, and every move an intent.”

You watched him silently as his pale cheek drew taut and he sighed quietly before continuing, “When Tilda told me of the woman who had survived Smaug’s attack, I was intrigued. When she told me of how you hid yourself, I had to see you. I had to see what I had once been. Broken, scared, lost.

“But you were not so much. When I told you my name, my title, you did not flinch. You treated me as any; you wanted not to do with me.” The corners of his lips curved and he looked to you coyly, “And you intrigued me further. Even after I left, I thought of this dragon-scarred woman and her subtle audacity.

“I fear my invitation, our little encounters, have no cryptic purpose to them other than my own interest. It is not known for kings to have friends, not true friends, and I think in you I hoped to find that…now that I’m truly alone,” He shrugged as if trying to shed himself of his unusual inclination; the candour which had come over him, “And that is all it is. Loneliness, which overcomes even kings.”

He turned back to the waterfall, letting his words dissolve into the mist rising from the foaming ripples. You did not know how to reply to his admission, though it felt as though silence was most suitable. He was no longer abashed but seemingly relieved and your own nerves had stilled. In a rare moment, you felt peaceful and you forgot the remnants of Smaug’s flames which had left you fractured.

* * *

Time passed without notice as you sat before the waterfall and finally the king rose, signalling the end of your unexpected assignation. You stood and kept your eyes on the tumbling waters, willing the glamour back into place. You turned to Thranduil who waited patiently, his own scars concealed in kind, as he held out his arm for you.

“We shall return here anon but I have one more surprise for you,” The spontaneity of the moment seeped away and his usual calculation returned. Something in the back of your mind sparked with suspicion but was quickly smothered; _what reason had he given you to distrust him but the words of others?_

You took his arm and let him guide you from the courtyard, this time paying heed to your surroundings and the winding labyrinth of corridors which led you back to the palace. Soon, the braided branches and stony floors grew more familiar and you recognized the hallway you walked along. At the end, a chamber you would have never dared approach; the king’s.

Thranduil stopped before his doors, releasing you to pull forth a golden key to unlock them. He pushed one inward and waved you through. You thought of refusing for concern of propriety but there were none around to observe you. Besides, you were still merely a commoner and the king had shown you no ill-intent.

Within, his receiving chamber stood as opulent as his throne room. A dining table engraved with scenes of the court stood center, the chairs decorated with markings of the royal house. A fireplace gaped like an open mouth, dark and unlit in the heat of the elvish summer. A hand-woven carpet was laid-out before the hearth, swirls of gold, silver, and sapphire intertwined. A chaise of midnight blue and two matching armchairs, their legs of curled ivory. It was as much a dream as the courtyard.

“Please, sit,” He said gently, “I’ll return shortly. I’ve got to fetch the surprise.”

He gave a subtle bow of his head before departing through another door, one you guessed led to his bedchamber. Left alone, you walked the perimeter of the room before sitting upon the chaise. You felt as if you didn’t belong on the palatial furniture. Your patched skirt and musty old blouse made you feel the peasant and it was like you were trespassing in the king’s chambers. There was too much to take in. The mantle decorated with pricey trinkets and the walls adorned with lavish painting. You had only ever read of  such elaborate rooms in your fictions.

You were about to stand when the door hinges whispered and kept you from doing so. You looked over your shoulder as Thranduil returned, nearing you with a parcel in his hands.

His eyes flickered with delight as he drew closer, sitting next to you on the chaise as he offered the bundle to you. You inhaled sharply as you eyed it and slowly forced yourself to take it from him. “You’ve done too much already,” You set it on your lap, making no move to reveal its contents, “I really can’t–”

“You must,” He interjected, “I insist. I am a king and there are few things beyond my grasp. Now please, it’s a small gift, nothing more.”

You pursed your lips, glancing down at the parcel. You really didn’t want to keep accepting his little generosities. Now that you had a moment to reflect, your foray into the royal courtyard seemed a bit much and sitting in his chamber was even more. 

You thought of how suspicious Bard had been of your dinner with the king and it began to overwhelm you. He knew Thranduil better than you did. He had fought the dwarves alongside him and they had met on several occasions since the burning of Laketown. He had tried to warn you but against what? Pleasantries and gifts? Maybe, the elven king was just misunderstood.

“Well,” He urged and you hovered your fingers above the string which held the bundle together.

You slowly pulled it and the twine loosened easily, you began to unfold the brown paper to reveal a swath of sumptuous satin within. The silver fabric reflected shades of blue and purple, the light glittering against it. You lifted it out of its wrapping to reveal a finely tailored gown, one which set your own garb to shame.

“Your—Thranduil,” Your breath caught and you wanted to toss the dress away from you; it was too much. “I can’t accept this.”

“Ah,” He raised his hand in dismissal, “You can. I have a banquet planned for your king and you can’t show up looking like it’s a funeral, my dear. The time for mourning is over.”

“But…” You struggled for a sliver of argument but it felt more a crime to reject his kindness, “Thank you.”

“Not at all,” He touched your arm gently, “The measurements may not be precise but I shall have my tailor visit you on the morrow and fix any flaws”

“Really, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” You folded it back up on your lap and covered it with the brown paper.

“Yes, but I want you to look as beautiful as you truly are,” His fingers tickled your neck for a moment and suddenly he stood. His shoulders were set as he turned back to you, holding out his hand. He had returned to the silver king of Mirkwood, the moment of intimacy dying as quickly as it had come.

You took his hand, tucking the dress under your arm as he led you to the door. “As it is,” He announced in a courtly voice, “We will be late for supper. Best we be on our way before rumours are stirred.”

* * *

As promised, the gown was tailored precisely to your form. You had never worn anything so resplendent, it almost felt a crime. Even in those days when you had your whole face, you had never worn any garment nicer than cotton or wool. It amazed you how casually Thranduil and his court could parade around in silks and brocades as if they were as common as a bolt of gingham.

You felt like an imposter as you stared in the mirror. A servant had arrived earlier to your surprise. The king had sent her to arrange your hair, though she had pinned back less than half of it. Loose curls hung down your back and with the protection of the glamour, you looked as if you may just blend in.

Another knock came at the door and you groaned. You dreaded another unexpected visitor and your were truly tired of surprises. Not two weeks ago life had been entirely predictable. The elven king had interrupted the tedium you had found comfort in. He no longer let you hide in the darkness and all this light was growing too hot to bear.

You crossed to the door, pulling the swishing fabric from between your legs as you opened it and revealed the head of blond hair smiling up at you. Tilda was dressed in a rose gown, her hair pulled back in intricate braids, and her cheeks flush with excitement. She gasped as she saw you and you shied back into your chamber as she reached out to touch your skirts.

“Wow!” She followed you in, rescinding her arm in embarrassment, “Sorry, I just…You look so lovely, Miss Y/N.”

“Oh, don’t,” You huffed and turned away, searching for the matching slippers which had come hidden beneath the folds of the gown, “I don’t even want to go. So many people looking at me because of this,” You slipped your feet into the satin slippers, “Something plainer would have been just fine by me.”

“You sound like, Da,” She giggled, “He sent me to fetch you. He wants to escort you to the banquet.”

“He does?” You squinted at her, “Why?”

“Because he’s your friend,” She shrugged, “And I want you to go with us. You spend all your time reading or with the king.”

“That’s not true, Tilda, I was with you yesterday,” You protested, “And you were more concerned with the butterflies in the garden.”

“Hmmf,” She crossed her arms in a very unprincess-like manner, “Let’s just hurry. I told Da I’d be quick and he’s been very grumpy lately.”

“Isn’t he grumpy everyday?” You kidded as you crossed to her, “Come on then,” You ushered her back through the door, “Since your in such a hurry…besides, another moment and I’ll have changed my mind.”

You closed the door and took Tilda’s hand as you set down the corridor, her presence giving you strength. You had forgotten how the girl had that effect. Had it not been or her, you’d still be a hermit rotting away in your hovel. Her persistence was admirable, enviable even. You wished you could steal back the same precociousness which had once driven you.

As you approached the set of chambers allotted to the visiting royal family, Bard stepped out with his other children in tow. Sigrid glowed in her deep red gown which made her look ever more the woman she was growing into. Bain stood next to her, still shorter than his older sister, wearing an overcoat just a shade darker than his father’s. The King of Dale’s emerald jacket shone in the light of the lantern’s and his eyes sparked as he turned to see you walking towards him.

“Y/N,” His mouth fell open as he looked between you and his youngest daughter, “I–Wow, I would never have–” His eyes focused and he managed to regain a semblance of composure, “That gown is lovely on you.”

“Thank you,” You mumbled, your stomach fluttering, “A gift.”

“Mmm,” His brow twitched and his lips curled, “Thranduil?” You nodded, his displeasure plain at the thought of the elven king, “How very thoughtful of him.”

“Well, I thought so,” You countered grimly.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” He forced his scowl away, “I didn’t–I just…Thranduil, he’s so…contrary.”

“Perhaps to you, but to me he’s been nicer than most,” You said, “I’d like to enjoy it while it lasts.”

“No, no, I shouldn’t speak against him,” Bard neared, his voice low and contrite, “You deserve all the good that comes your way. I should not be so quick as to let myself come between you and the king.” He bowed his head and held out a hand, “Would you, at least, accompany  _this_  king to the banquet?”

“Of course,” You accepted without hesitation.

“Besides, these brats don’t listen to me,” He gestured at his brood and they rolled their eyes almost simultaneously, “Even if I am a king.”

 

You were comforted by Bard’s presence, his warmth radiating at your side. The children followed behind, whispers and giggles pricking at your ears as they fought to withhold their excitement. For a moment, before you entered the hall of sparkling candelabras and glowing lanterns, you felt normal. As if you belonged with the royal brood.

Stepping inside, you wanted to hide behind the king but your arm in his kept you walking. You looked to him nervously, his brown eyes calming you as he seemed to sense your distress. He nodded to someone over your shoulder before angling you aside, touching your shoulder in a moment of empathy.

“Y/N,” He kept his voice low, the children not far away, “You sure you’re alright?”

“I am, I promise,” You took his hand from your shoulder, squeezing it before releasing it with a smile, “It’s just been some time since I’ve been around so many people and…I don’t really look like me, do I?”

“You look–” He was interrupted as another voice cut through the momentary lull.

“Prince and Princesses,” You turned as Thranduil bowed emphatically to the children, “Lady Y/N, King Bard,” He stepped past the younglings and grinned as he held out his hand, taking yours and kissing it, “You look wonderful, this evening.” He looked you over like a work of art, “This fabric complements you very well.”

“Thank you,” You lowered your hand, trying to ignore the heat of Bard beside you, a tension forming among your trio, “Your majesty.”

“Allow me to get you seated,” He smirked at the King of Dale who bristled, his arm brushing your sleeve as he suppressed a growl, “If you would follow me.”

Thranduil turned with a flick of his lithe fingers and Bard ushered his children ahead of him. You gulped as you watched the strain play across his face. “What’s the matter?” You whispered, nearly frightening Bard who seemed to jolt from his indignant trance.

“Nothing, nothing,” He pushed back his shoulders as if to shed his displeasure, “I just…Nothing.”

“As our guest of honour,” Thranduil spoke boldly as he walked, “You must have a seat at the royal table with myself,” He turned back and pulled out one of the straight backed chair, a pair in the centre of the table stood taller than the rest, “Your family are to be seated to your left, as is customary,” He spoke but hardly looked at Bard, instead focusing on you, “And Lady Y/N should sit at my side, if only for the sake of convenience. Though I should cherish the company.”

Bard reluctantly stepped forward, helping his children seat themselves before finally turning his attention back to the elven king. Thranduil pulled out the aforementioned chair and waited for you to sit. Suddenly, disquiet filled you. Thranduil had returned to his former cunning and you could sense it in him. Despite, his kindness you were certain you had been duped.

_Yet, what reason had he given you to distrust him? Hah he not invited you to his home? Shown you the utmost respect and helped you in your moments of weakness? Presented you gifts you couldn’t dream of? And now he bestowed you a seat of honour and all you could think of was to doubt him._

You hid your suspicions behind a smile. The elven king sat beside you and looked over his court, the nobles’ chatter dying as their monarch rang a bell which signalled the first course. Slowly, the voice returned but the food reduced their volume. As the trays were set before you, you struggled to find your appetite and filled your plate only out of courtesy.

“I know I’ve said it already but you do look ravishing, my dear,” Thranduil filled your glass with wine before his own, “I knew there was a lady beneath all that despair.”

You felt your cheeks colour and could not of think of response which would not bite. You sipped the wine instead and mumbled an awkward ‘thank you’. With the glamour and the gown, surely you must have seemed the typical lady, but you didn’t feel it. Oh, how you longed to flee back to your chamber and hide.  _But you already were hiding, weren’t you?_

You attempted to keep up the small talk with the king, though he seemed more content to look at you. His pale eyes were unsettling, their gleam almost lascivious. Suddenly all that goodwill you had assumed in him was turning to lust. You were a fool. Another toy for the king. A conquest to be added to the list of many.

Or perhaps it was all in your head. Bard’s suspicions were contagious and you were contriving Thranduil’s ill-intent because it was too good to be true. The dragon’s flame had done more than corrupt your flesh, it had soured your insides. _Would there ever be a day when you could be appeased?_

Thranduil clinked his glass with a fork, the echoing ring drawing you back to the banquet. He stood and raised his wine, waiting for the voices to hush. The guests turned to their king and he smiled, a second glamour masking him. He was the courtly king, the proper monarch, addressing his people in his regal voice.

“Tonight, we gather to celebrate our royal visitors from Dale. Their King, Bard, our guest of honour. It was his skill, his valour, which salvaged our lands from the scourge of dragon fire. Had it not been for his arrow, we would have found ourselves, as his people had, at the mercy of Smaug.”

Movement caught your eye and you saw Bard shifting in his chair, “And most importantly, we would not have his people as allies. We shall work together, prosper together towards a peaceable future. But first a gift,” The king spread his arms in a grand manner, “To show our gratitude and our loyalty.”

Thranduil cued with a flourish and the doors opened at the end of the great hall, servants entered, dragging a tumbril, its contents concealed by a length of red silk. “A trophy to commemorate your victory,” The elven king said to Bard, “Behold!”

The cloth was pulled from the hidden gift and you gasped as the large skull was revealed. The large teeth, sharp and curved had been polished to shine. The curve of the beast’s snout look as formidable as it had with flesh and scales. Smaug’s eyes had long since turned to dust and yet you could see the golden irises staring back at you; the flame rising from his throat.

The air had stilled and you couldn’t breath. It felt as if a stone had taken the place of your heart and you were drowning in fear and grief. You were once more the hermit in her hovel, the freak under her cloak, the accursed shrew. You had been naive to think the past could ever be revived.

“No!” You stood, you blood surging with panic. “You!”

You shoved Thranduil in your anger and hurt, shaking as you tried not to stumble over you chair. You felt the tears pricking as you backed out, turning away in your shame as you tried to pushed past the chairs of other guests. You raced from the hall clumsily, the heat of your audience’s eyes following you as you fled through the door.

You began to sob as you ran, going until you could no longer. You came to small enclave and collapsed within it, bending your knees to your chest as you hugged your legs and wept.  _How could you have been so stupid?_  To think you were anything but a novelty. How very ridiculous!


End file.
